


Lock, Stock & Two Smokin' Winchesters

by Duckyboos



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Boxing, BAMF Castiel, BAMF Dean, Bottom Dean, Crimes & Criminals, Dark Comedy, Fights, M/M, Rough Sex, Swearing, Tattooed Castiel, Tattooed Dean, Top Castiel, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-22
Updated: 2014-04-25
Packaged: 2018-01-13 10:33:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 29,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1223077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Duckyboos/pseuds/Duckyboos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Alright Sammy, you show me how to control a wild fucking Russian and I’ll show you how to control an unhinged, pig-feeding gangster!”</p><p>There’s an unspoken rule in London’s underground illegal boxing scene that if you’ve gotta deal with Crowley, you’ve just got to make sure that you don’t end up in his debt. Because if you end up in his debt, then you’re in his pocket. And then you’re fucked.</p><p>Dean and his brother Sam are fucked. </p><p>Castiel Krushnic is the underground bareknuckle boxing champion; which makes him harder than a coffin nail. Dean has the fun task of persuading the blue-eyed psycho to fight for them, in <em>any</em> way he can.</p><p>Otherwise they are <em>proper</em> fucked.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue - Castiel, the sneaky fuckin' Russian

**Author's Note:**

> So, in all honesty, this fic really is going to be shameless self-indulgence.  
> Snatch is my favourite film of all time, and I moved to South-East London when I left home at the age of sixteen, so a lot of the places in this fic will be real.
> 
> Prologue is short, but I'm aiming to keep the same kind of upload speed with this as I did with The Damnation Game, though I am supposed to be running a business (so not as important as BAMF! Cas though) so we'll have to see how I go.
> 
> Thanks for all the support and I hope I don't let you guys down with this one!
> 
> [ My Tumblr ](http://not-a-natural-born-idjit.tumblr.com/)

Dean Winchester is a fucking mess. Literally as well as figuratively right at this moment in time. He’s covered in too much blood to just be his own; deep red smears across the thick corded muscle of his biceps and broad naked chest. A particularly brutal punch to his opponent’s nose adds another splattering.

He and his younger brother, Sam, are in the business of unlicensed boxing (amongst other things) and whilst they have a lot of fighters on their roster, Dean is more than happy to step in on occasion as a form of therapy. Because as everyone who knows Dean Winchester knows – and in fairness there aren’t many, which isn’t accidental – he does not _do_ feelings.

There had been no reason for them to stay in Lawrence; no ties, so they moved to the UK. South-East London to be precise, and they’d carved a successful business out of blood, sweat and tears; their name now synonymous with the underground boxing scene.

Their mom died in a fire when Dean was four and Sam was six months. Dean had carried his infant brother to safety in his arms, whilst their father had made a futile attempt to get their mother out alive. To this day, nobody knows what caused the fire, but one thing that Dean would tell anyone who was half as pretty as him – when he was drunk and sliding off a barstool to stumble his way through another one-night stand – was that their dad died that night too. Figuratively, not literally.

That came later.

By all accounts their father had been a good man, who made mistakes but loved his wife and his two boys; especially Dean. But with the love of his life gone, he soon fell into a pattern of abuse and alcoholism, until one night when Dean was eleven, his father overstepped an invisible boundary when he raised a hand to the younger Winchester. Dean would tell the court that it wasn’t the first time that he’d handled a gun – their dad used to take him down to the shooting range – but that it would be his last.

He’d lied about that. When he got out of prison at the age of 22 (extenuating circumstances and good behaviour lent itself to an early release), Sam had turned up to the prison gates to greet his brother with a hug and their dad’s old revolver.  Sam’s release from foster care coincided nicely with Dean’s release from prison, and the younger Winchester didn’t need much persuading to take up crime as a family business.

The pair stayed in Lawrence for a few months after that, but at every turn they were given either disgusted or pitying looks. Dean hated the latter more than the former.

Castiel smirks around the glass raised to his lips.

Yep, Dean Winchester; ten pounds of issues in a five pound bag.

The guy he’s fighting – a cocky prick who Cas himself has fought quite a few times – is fast, but not as fast as Dean, and is swiftly and efficiently thrown on his ass with the panting Winchester grinning over him. The taunt is lost to Castiel’s ears as the crowd roars, but he’s heard enough about Dean to know that it was probably something to do with the other guy’s mother; beautiful, powerful and a complete force to be reckoned with the man may be, but a poet he is not.

The bell sounds and the referee grabs Dean’s sweat-and-blood-slick arm and raises it in the air. “Your winner, Dean Winchester!”

The crowd thunders again and Castiel drains the dregs of his whisky, slamming the glass down on the bar and straightens up to his full height, rolling his shoulders in a manner that he’s been informed on more than one occasion is pretty fucking intimidating.

 

_Showtime._

 


	2. Chapter One - Do you boys know what nemesis means?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So obviously being as the Winchesters have been living in London for a while now, they've picked up a few Britishisms, so they're kind of interspersed among the Americanisms!
> 
> The Underworld in London is totes a real venue too; the pub it's under is called The World's End.
> 
> Also, thanks for the support after the first chapter guys! Totally overwhelmed. You're all legends!

It’s far too early in the morning for Dean to be attempting to muddle his way through the ridiculous paperwork that constitutes their accounts. He and his brother have seriously conflicting ideas on how a running total is supposed to work and Dean doubts that Sam actually gives a shit for his version, which of course is the _right_ one.

At least it’s quiet whilst he works; their club in Camden Town doesn’t open for another few hours to the local degenerates so he’s got some time to make sense of the haphazard numbers scrawled in the lined notebook. They really need to get an accountant, ‘cause trying to sort through this to pay taxes gives him a fucking aneurysm every year, and it always ends up with him hurriedly writing any old shit down, in the vain hopes that the fucking tax man won’t screw them over again.

He wishes that they didn’t have to bother with this bullshit, but this is one of their two legit businesses that they so badly need as a front for their not-so-legit business; which is the one that actually makes them _real_ money, so he just has to suck it up and push on through.

Though this is their only legal club, it’s actually Dean’s favourite; located in the heart of London’s alternative scene, The Underworld is host to gigs during the week and club nights at the weekend, and Dean spends most of his downtime here rather than at their fighting venue near Charing Cross. It’s also managed by their good friend, Ash; a fellow metalhead and American. The interview for the position had consisted of Dean asking the scruffy dude with a mullet and holes in his jeans for his opinions on bands and albums. It didn’t matter that he had no real managerial experience – after all, that could be taught – ‘cause as soon as he said that Metallica got shit after the Black album, well Dean was sold on the guy. He’s been supervising the place for the best part of 8 years now.

Dean hears one of the front glass doors being unlocked and then squeaking open. Moments later his gangly dickhead of a brother is loping his way down the stairs, which Dean just about has a view of from his seat at the desk in the corner of the office. The Underworld is aptly named, as it’s a basement venue under a pub that Dean wishes he was spending his fucking time in right now.

He doesn’t look up, but he can see his brother hovering in the periphery of his vision like some overgrown gnat. And his long girly hair is soaking wet, dripping water all over the floor, so it’s obviously raining. Again. They’ve lived in England for the best part of a decade and Sam still struggles with the concept of an umbrella.

After a few seconds of his brother’s aimless fidgeting, Dean ultimately snaps, ”What the fuck do you want Sam?”

"Jesus Dean.” He finally barges his way into the small square room that is always far too cold in winter and hotter than Satan’s asshole in summer. Right now – being January – it’s colder than an arctic witches left tit, which is also not helping his concentration. This fucking country, seriously.

“What the Hell is wrong with you? You lose at poker to Bela again last night?”

Fucking bitch. She’s gotta be cheating somehow. Where she managed to produce that Royal Flush from he’ll never know. He’s not even sure he wants to.

Sam smirks; he knows that he’s hit the nail on the head.

Dean snorts derisively, throwing his biro into the mass of paperwork, and then cringes because it took him an hour to find a black fucking pen instead of a blue one and it’s gonna take him another hour to re-find it amongst the loose papers. “Sammy-“

He’s cut off by the sound of the doors yawning open at the top of the stairs again, the squelching of shoes on the lino floor, and then a distinctly Cockney voice grates out, “Wetter than a mermaid’s twat out there”.

He sends Sam a withering look. His brother didn’t lock the door behind him. For the second time in as many days.

A few seconds later, the mystery interloper appears in the space of the office doorway; occupying the same place his Sasquatch brother had moments ago, except this guy is wider and shorter than Sammy. And dressed for a funeral.

“Hello boys. Not interrupting, am I?”

Sam instantly tenses from his position by the filing cabinet and Dean tries to look casual as he gets to his feet and leans against the desk, crossing his arms over his chest. Internally he’s panicking like a girl on a first date. This guy is not someone that they have encountered a lot over the years since their move to the UK, and Dean is exceptionally thankful for that.

“Crowley,” His tone isn’t respectful, but not quite disgusted either. For all of Dean’s bravado and strength, Fergus Crowley is a well-known… Dean struggles for the right word… _asshole?_ in London and it’s in their best interests to keep him on side, at least until they can figure out some other way of dealing with him, but from what he’s heard, the best way to ‘handle’ Crowley is to do as he says without screwing up. It’s when you screw up that you wind up dead.

“What can we do for you?” Sam asks, his voice a touch softer and more polite. He always was the courteous Winchester.

“Well,” Crowley starts and Dean tries his best not to screw his face up. The boxing promoter’s voice is slick, but it has a note of underlying grit and Dean can’t quite place it. He hates it when he can’t map someone out. The ability to read the cues in people’s tones and cadence was something that served him well in prison; kept him alive and un-raped.  It sets him on edge not being able to recognise the nuances in Crowley’s intonation. Well, more on edge than he already is to be sharing precious oxygen with a nut-job who has a well-documented penchant for hurting people just ‘cause he can.

“Long and short of it?” Crowley spreads his hands in a supplicatory gesture. “I’ve heard that the two yanks can provide me with a fighter.”

Dean raises his eyebrows; of all the things he was expecting Crowley to say, that was pretty low down on the list. “You have plenty of fighters. What the fuck do you want with ours?”

Crowley’s eyes flash to Dean and for an instant, Dean feels as if the fires of Hell are on him. A dribble of sweat seeps down the back of his neck – despite the temperature of the room – making him shift uneasily. Being in a room with Crowley is like wearing a jumper made out of wire wool; irritating, painful and exceedingly uncomfortable.

His eyes switch to the younger Winchester, but he points a meaty finger at Dean.

“Put a leash on her Sam, before she gets bitten.” He steps calmly back away from the office doorway to illustrate his point by revealing a plethora of butch bodyguards. Maybe six or seven grim-faced douchebags hopped up on steroids. Dean could probably take at least four, maybe five, before he got his spine ripped out through his throat.

_Worth it._

Sam ignores the last statement, which is probably the wisest thing to do under the circumstances. “As my brother said, what do you want with our fighters?”

Crowley sighs as if he is talking to two mentally handicapped children. “Most of my lot are somewhat,” He pauses, considering his words wisely, “ _incapacitated._ ”

Dean shudders. He’s well-aware of Crowley’s staff-murdering tendencies. There’s a not-quite-myth that he feeds the bodies to his pigs. No fuckin’ joke. The most recent disappearance from his roster was a heavyweight who’d refused to throw his last fight. Poor stupid bastard.

Met with an unimpressed silence, Crowley continues.

“It’s for one match and providing he goes down in the fourth round, it may be for more.”

“None of our fighters throw matches, Crowley.” Dean articulates slowly, trying to keep his temper even. He could really do without making their lives difficult right now, despite the temptation to smash the smug wanker’s face in. He’s never been especially good at keeping his anger in check and being in prison for the entirety of his teenage years _really_ hadn’t improved the situation.

“Well, neither did mine.” Crowley smiles all shark-teeth, voice heavy with implication.

“Okay,” Sam steps forward, sending a warning glance over to Dean, desperate to try and relieve some of the blatant tension in the small box room. “What do we get out of it?”

Crowley looks momentarily taken aback, as if he’s genuinely affronted that the Winchesters wouldn’t be bending over backwards for him. “Well, I don’t burn your club down for one. Isn’t that reason enough for gratitude?”

Silence greets him once more. “Fine,” He sighs. “How about 5k for the fight?”

Dean scoffs, momentarily forgetting the earlier threat. “That’s chicken feed Crowley and you know it.”

“Chicken feed? Have an avian interest, do you Dean?” He smiles again. It’s only half-way pleasant. “Well, I have heard rumours that you’re partial to a cockatoo.”

Dean cocks an eyebrow. So yeah, that may have been a fucking awesome pun – worthy of something he’d say himself – but there’s no way that he’s gonna let the fucker see how amused he is. Incidentally it’s also true. Dean’s all about the equal opportunities. In fact, just the other night –

Crowley sighs impatiently. “Take it or leave it, lads.”

Dean glances over at Sam who gives him a faint nod. All decisions they make have to be made together. It was a promise they made to one another when they started out and it’s served them well over the years. Dean is all wrath and impulse, whereas Sam is definitely the more business minded of the two. Despite Sam’s shit book-keeping skills, Dean fucking needs him. Otherwise he’d never have made it out in the real world.

It’s not like he would have it any other way though. The stupid bastard used to always find a way to visit him every week when he was in jail, despite his foster parents’ objections. That was – and is – Sammy; loyal as fuck.

“Fine.” Dean agrees, with an eye roll. As if they _really_ had any other choice. “But we pick the fighter.”

Crowley waves his hand dismissively, “Whatever. Just make them good and make sure that they go down in the fourth. It’ll be at my place in Soho. Tuesday night. Get there for five.” And then he’s turning on his heel, his heavy black coat swishing him behind him like some kind of Cockney vampire. Dean vaguely wonders if he should start keeping garlic around, just in case.

 As soon as they hear the heavy door to the club thump shut, the brothers turn to face one another. Sam looks like his pet guinea pig has been eaten in front of him, and Dean is sure that his expression is pretty much a mirror of that. Except his would be because of something less innocent, like never getting to have sex again. Which he won’t if they fuck this up. And that just will not do.

“Who’s it gonna be?” Sam asks, biting his lip.

“Gordon.” Dean says without thinking. Prick has been getting a little too full of himself recently. He’s gotta be taken down a peg or twenty. Throwing a fight will certainly cool that ego.

“You think he can handle it?” At Dean’s disbelieving look, Sam clarifies, “Throwing the fight I mean.”

Dean shrugs nonchalantly, though he’s feeling anything but. “He’ll fucking have to. Otherwise we’re _all_ fucked.”


	3. Chapter Two - It ain't as if he's incon-fucking-spicuous, now is it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I'm sorry that I didn't post last night. This chapter has been a nightmare for some reason, and I'm still not happy with it, even now, so it'll probably be getting tweaked at some point in the very near future!
> 
> Thanks as usual guys, comments and stuff are always gratefully received. <3

It’s raining. Again.

Castiel exhales heavily, his warm breath misting in the chilly air, and pulls his beige trench coat tighter around himself. The one he’s kept solely because his sister Anna bought it for him, and it’s his final tenuous link to her. Thankfully, it’s only a short tube journey on the Jubilee line from his apartment in Greenwich to his favourite gym in London Bridge, and from there it’s a short walk, so he probably won’t get _completely_ soaked through.

He’s been going to Singer’s boxing gym – owned by Bobby; an ornery-but-decent man who is discreet and well-rooted in the scene – for a long time; pretty much the entire twelve or so years he’s been in the country. Coming from Massachusetts where there was a significant Russian-American community to the capital of the UK had been more than a little jarring. Especially as he was barely out of his teens when he made the move. But from the moment he stepped into the gym with the peeling white paint, scuffed red floor and cobwebs in every corner, he felt welcome.

Home away from home.

He pushes open the heavy side door of Singer’s gym and is instantly greeted by some country music that he’s almost certainly heard before – probably in here; the truck-cap-sporting old guy seems to love it. Nobody even bothers to complain anymore, ‘cause they’ll just get an empty bottle of whisky to the head. One of the other regulars found that out the hard way.

“Morning Castiel.” The old man is gruff – more so than usual – and his eyes are bloodshot. Late one last night, then. Probably playing cards with the infamous cheat, Bela Talbot. She seems to know exactly how to work the men who are stupid enough to play against her. Castiel grudgingly admires her for that. Playing others’ weaknesses to an advantage is definitely something he can get on board with.

“Hello Bobby,” Castiel nods courteously. He’s not exactly known for his people skills at the best of times and he hasn’t had a fight in almost a month, so he’s getting an itch underneath his skin, gritty like sand. It’s only exacerbating the issue.

“You want someone to spar with today?” Bobby throws him a plain green towel which smells vaguely like lilies, and Castiel catches it easily with his left hand. Most days he’s happy with a bag, but today he could definitely benefit from a living, breathing partner.

“Sure,” He smiles out of politeness, but he knows that it doesn’t reach his eyes. He reserves his genuine smiles for when he really means them.

Bobby gestures to the ring behind Castiel where two half naked men are bare-knuckle boxing. One he recognises as Balthazar; someone he would actually consider a friend – if he allowed himself to get close enough to anyone for that – as well as a very willing stress-reliever. When Castiel first moved to London, it was Balthazar who found him, gave him somewhere to live whilst he worked out what the fuck he wanted to do. He’s also the only person in the world who gets to call him ‘Cassie’ without ending up in hospital.

The other one he doesn’t know at all. Bobby stands up and shuffles across the floor until he’s standing next to Castiel looking up at the fight. Balthazar is just landing a punch on the other man’s shoulder. It looks like a good solid one too. Though, Balthazar has always been good with his fists; it’s his defence that ultimately loses him bouts. “That’s Gordon Walker. He’s pretty decent. One of the Winchesters’ fighters.”

He’s heard of the Winchesters; a pair of loud-mouthed Americans that he’s been assured on many an occasion are worth talking to if you want a decent booking, but still he’s never been bothered to get in touch. Bobby seems to rate them, especially the elder one, Dean. Admittedly, he’s heard good things about the man from other sources too.

“If he’s game, give me a shot with the Winchesters guy. You’ve told me so many good things about them; let’s see if their fighters are any good.” Castiel flashes another not-quite smile and then he’s making his way to the locker room at the back of the gym.

The small room is mercifully empty, so he begins undressing; unbuttoning his black overshirt, folding it neatly on the wooden-slatted bench and pulls his wife beater over his head, leaving only his low-slung dark jeans on. Usually, he’d change into sweatpants or shorts, but his gym bag is soaked and he really doesn’t feel like fighting in the claggy material; it’ll just distract him.

He’s just on his way back out when he hears the heated discussion between Walker and Bobby.

“Err, Bobby. You expect me to go up against this guy?” The man is gesturing wildly in Castiel’s direction, but he can’t find it in him to even be mildly offended. He’s kind of used to it after all.

Most people have heard his name, but maybe only half of those have seen him; know what he looks like. It’s a distinct advantage, right up until they’re standing opposite him in a ring and the announcer calls his name. Then the colour drains from their faces when they realise what – _who_ – they’re in the ring with. That’s always fun.

He looks unassuming; he’s agility and skill rather than might and muscle; not built like a lot of the men he fights against, he’s toned and lean, strength coiled neatly below the surface of his tattooed skin.

And he is heavily tattooed; notably the black wings spanning his shoulder blades, down his upper arms with the tips of the feathers ending at his elbows, and the religious half-sleeve on his left forearm. However it’s his greyscale Alice In Wonderland tattoo that starts just below his right pectoral and continues down his ribs to the hipbone that is his absolute favourite, and commonly the one that distracts people the most. Growing up, he adored the book and so he got some of the original artwork by Tenniel done as soon as he was old enough.

His chosen ink is probably more than a little unusual for someone in his line of work – most of the other fighters have boring tribal work or naked women – but he always has loved defying people’s carefully constructed expectations, and when he goes out searching for someone to fuck, the look on his conquests faces when he reveals the ink – especially when they think they’ve bagged some kind of tax accountant – is nearly always more satisfying than the sex itself.

He doesn’t allow himself any real indulgences beyond the odd one night stand; he can’t care about anything or any _one_ – beyond his fights – because caring is a sign of weakness. And weaknesses can be exploited and used against him. His whole adult life has been an exercise in control and restraint; he has to be disciplined in his work and that’s bled over into his personal life too.

You don’t get to be the best without sacrifice. It’s one he willingly makes.

He hears a low wolf-whistle coming from his right and looks up to see Balthazar, ogling him from his position leaning on the thick top rope of the ring he was fighting Gordon in a few minutes ago.

“Sorry Cassie, but I’ll never get tired of looking at that beautiful skin of yours. Fancy going out tonight? I’ll even throw in an epic blow job.” He sends Castiel a leery wink and then ducks between the two ropes, exiting the ring with a grace that seems at odds with a man who just offered him oral sex in the middle of a semi-busy gym.

Balthazar is certainly attractive; he’s in great shape considering the few years he has on Castiel and that combined with a handsome face, clear blue eyes and blond hair that is just the right length to run your fingers through, makes for a seriously tempting offer that Castiel wouldn’t usually refuse. It’s not what he needs right now though.

Castiel sends the Brit a long-suffering eye-roll. “Thank you, but no.”

Balthazar doesn’t look offended by the rejection; he’s more than used to Castiel’s cool indifference by now. “Your loss.” He gives Castiel a quick squeeze on the shoulder and then he’s sauntering off towards the locker room just as Gordon and Bobby are finishing up their conversation.

“What’s the decision?” Castiel asks, probably sounding more concerned about the outcome than he actually is. He’s sure that Balthazar would be more than happy to oblige if this prick isn’t.

“Why not?” Gordon’s question is rhetorical as he takes to the ringside steps. “I could do with a warm down.”

Cocky asshole.

Castiel follows him, sending Bobby a withering glance over his shoulder. The old man huffs a laugh. It’s apparent that he’s not overly fond of Walker either.

He’s just deciding whether to wrap his hands or not – he’s not planning on properly hitting the guy, so he’s not worried about hurting the muscles/tendons – when Gordon speaks again.

“So, you know about me. But who are you?”

“No-one of import.” Castiel says, limbering up; jumping on the spot, rolling his shoulders.

“Want me to go easy on you?” Gordon’s smirk is bright white teeth and completely disingenuous.

He hears a snort from his left, down on the floor and turns his head to give Balthazar – who is now fully dressed in his usual V-neck/jeans combo with a red gym bag over his left shoulder – a stare that would shut most sensible people up. Balthazar has never fallen into that category though.

“No.” Castiel says simply, not bothering to elaborate further. He just wants a straightforward match, so he’s going to try to hold himself back, at least a little. No point in knocking the guy out just yet.

No matter how badly he’s asking for it.

“Come on man, I’d like to know who you are so that I when I beat you here today, I can tell people that you’re as feeble as you look.”

He glances at Balthazar and then Bobby. Balthazar is grinning maniacally and Bobby is looking ever-so slightly worried like he may have done the wrong thing by suggesting the pairing.

Castiel sighs heavily, lowering his fists. “Krushnic.” The guy won’t want to fight him now that he knows he hasn’t got a chance of winning.

The reaction from Walker is immediate. “No you’re fucking not.”

Castiel balks. Well that’s a reaction he hasn’t gotten before.

He arches a brow. “Need me to prove it?” Hopefully the threat alone will carry enough weight.

“Cassie,” Balthazar mutters warningly, but Castiel is barely listening as the man opposite him just grins even wider.

“Yeah. Come on, hot shot. Let’s fucking see ya.”

Castiel internally debates for a few moments whilst the other man is dancing on the balls of his feet, taunting him with a repeated chant of, “Come on, hit me. After all, you’re ‘The Hitman’, right?” It’s pretty grating and really Castiel needs quiet to properly think his options through.

Fuck it.

The right hook to Gordon’s left temple does finally shut the bastard up and as he crumples to the mat in a useless tangle of limbs, Castiel savours the rush of raw, unadulterated _power_ burning along his veins like liquid fire that he always gets when he KO’s someone. He’s learned a multitude of ways to do it with one hit over the years, but the temple shot will always be his favourite. Especially where pricks like Gordon are concerned.

Asshole had it coming.

He turns to Bobby and shrugs helplessly. And gives Balthazar – who is ever-so-slightly slack jawed, despite him having seen Castiel do this a million times over – a little wry _genuine_ smile.

“Whoops.”

***

“Bobby, are you fucking insane?” Dean’s just bringing some crappy Chinese from the all-you-can-eat a little further down the road when he hears his brother’s angry shouting from behind the closed office door. The Underworld is just about to open and Ash is nowhere to be seen, though he’s probably about somewhere; he has a habit of falling asleep behind the bar or on the stage. It’s not busy; never is at eleven on a Thursday morning, so Dean’s not concerned just yet.

Luckily, persuading Gordon to do the fight after Crowley’s visit the day previously hadn’t been as daunting a challenge as they’d been expecting. Probably because he and Sammy made an executive decision not to take a cut of the 5K. They want nothing to do with Crowley’s money for as long as they can help it. Meaning that Gordon is going to get the whole lot; which is fair really, especially as he’s putting his rep on the line to throw the fight.

As long as he makes it look genuine, he’ll be fine. They’ll all be fine.

Dean shoulders the door open and deposits Sam’s carton of noodles on top of the filing cabinet, whilst he throws himself into the squeaky leather office chair and starts poking at the rice in his own container with the chopsticks provided.

‘The fuck?’ he mouths at his brother, who shoots him an irritated glare with a small shake of his head as he listens intently to the voice at the other end of the phone.

Whatever’s going on, it cannot be good.

Sam jaggedly runs a hand through his hair, a gesture Dean knows all too well. He tenses in his seat.

Really not good.

“Well, what were you thinking, putting Gordon up against _him_? I mean the clue’s in his fucking name Bobby! He hasn’t earned the title of The Hitman by tickling them to death, now has he?”

Dean feels as if the air has turned to ice; his breathing suddenly feels laboured, like he’s being throttled and his brother is still going with his tirade at Bobby.

There’s only one fighter in London with that nickname.

What Dean knows about Castiel ‘The Hitman’ Krushnic can be written on a napkin, though it’s all he’s ever really cared to know. Dude is a psychopath. Albeit, a very talented psychopath, famous for his ability to KO his opponents with one punch. Pretty much every fucking time. Though for the sake of sportsmanship, he has been known to drag it out for a little longer.

Sam is gripping the office phone in his hand so tight that his knuckles are beginning to go white. “He’s in a fucking coma Bobby! Crowley is going to kill us all, you know that don’t you?”

Well, shit.

Really, really, _really_ not good.

***

The Winchesters are standing at Crowley’s pig farm in Lewisham. Dean’s pretty sure that he’s skipped right past the trial and is now walking towards the fucking gallows. In his mind’s eye he can see the noose and everything. Crowley’s the one pulling the goddamn lever.

“We’ve lost Gordon.” Sam says quietly as they trail behind Crowley, in some kind of disgustingly putrid smelling pig shed.

Crowley stops dead, dropping the shovel back into the bucket of… whatever is in there. Dean really doesn’t want to investigate, given the aforementioned rumours. The gangster turns around slowly, his voice low and menacing. “In the quiet words of the virgin Mary, come again?”

“Gordon. We’ve lost him.” Sam clarifies, sounding pretty even and controlled. Dean’s a little impressed.

He passes the bucket over to one of his henchmen. Adam, Dean thinks his name is. Not that it matters; he’ll have another chief lackey within the week; he gets through henchmen even quicker than fighters. “Well where'd you lose him? it’s not as if he’s a set of fucking car keys now is it boys?”

Sam’s immediately ready with his reply. “We’re not backing out-“

“You bet your yank bollocks to a barn dance you’re not backing out.”

“Look, you’ll still get your fight-“ Dean interjects, hating to see Sammy flounder alone with this douchebag.

Crowley turns to him then, eyes dark and his face twisted into a grimace. “No. I won’t. I’ll lose all bets to the bookies. How are you boys gonna get me my money back, hmm? Maybe I should set fire to your quaint little club after all.”

That would be the absolute opposite of helpful in this situation.

The Winchesters both silently grapple for a better resolution. Dean comes up short, but Sam blurts, “We’ll get you a better fight.”

Dean turns to face his ridiculous baby brother, eyes wide in disbelief and he reins in the very serious fucking urge to punch the raging dickhead in his big fucking mouth.

“How?” Crowley says and it’s only half-way mocking. He seems genuinely curious. Which is all kinds of interesting. Maybe he’s not at the top of the food chain as Dean initially thought. “What does ‘better’ constitute?”

Sam looks pained for a moment and then Dean realises exactly what his brother is about to suggest, right before he does.

“Castiel Krushnic.”

Dean tries to contain his hysterical laughter. And it would have been hysterical in the original sense of the word; panic-stricken and frenzied, because this is in-fucking-sane. They’ve never even spoken to the Russian, never mind having the means to get him to fight for them. But it’s a shot, judging by the contemplative look in Crowley’s eyes.

Thing is, Dean himself can fight. If push comes to shove –and fairly soon, it may be their only option – he’d do it. It would be a risky move though; fighting is his form of self-medication; a way of expelling the rage he feels on a daily basis, for things ranging from people walking slowly in front of him right up to the memory of his Dad giving Sammy a black eye. He’s not 100% that he’d be able to control himself and throw the match; otherwise he would have offered to start off with.

Crowley strokes his chin thoughtfully. “Alright. I may be able to work with that. As long as he goes down in the fourth. If I pitch him against The Golem, people will believe that he’s genuinely lost the match.”

Dean and Sam simultaneously breathe a sigh of relief. Though Dean’s not quite sure why. It’s the furthest thing from a forgone conclusion that he can actually imagine. Convincing Crowley is probably a walk in the park compared to convincing Krushnic.

The Cockney gives them both a stern, unimpressed look just before he turns away, essentially dismissing them.

“You’re on thin fucking ice boys. And I shall be under it when it breaks. Now, fuck off.”


	4. Chapter Three - I'll fight you for it. You and me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Same problem with this chapter! I think I've written and re-written this at least five times now!
> 
>  
> 
> As usual, thanks for your kind words and stuff!

The bell sounds and the referee grabs Dean’s sweat-and-blood-slick arm and raises it in the air. “Your winner, Dean Winchester!”

The crowd thunders again and Castiel drains the dregs of his whisky, slamming the glass down on the bar and straightens up to his full height, rolling his shoulders in a manner that he’s been informed on more than one occasion is pretty fucking intimidating.

  _Showtime._

He’s been scoping the place out since he arrived; checking out each one of the three floors that make up the Winchesters venue here in Charing Cross, but more importantly, finding the exits in case of a sudden police presence, which is not uncommon at these kinds of events.

The place itself is a decent size; the main fighting pit is in the basement with the bar near the back, that at Castiel’s best estimate probably holds around five hundred people, and right now looks close to full capacity; the middle/ground floor which will undoubtedly be getting busy now that the bouts are over for the night, as that’s the one with the music and the biggest bar; and then there’s the uppermost level, with the dressing rooms and a VIP area – that Castiel suspects doubles as a strip club – which is where it looks like the Winchesters are currently headed.

Castiel pushes his way through the dense crowd, keeping his eyes trained on the younger Winchester's head – easy to see above the hundreds of others – moving towards the exclusive staircase that leads up to the top floor.

By the time he makes it up there – a good couple of minutes after the brothers – all of the doors in the black corridor are closed, but he can hear muffled voices drifting down from the one on the far left.

“Jesus fucking Christ, Samantha! Did you grow a pair of fucking ovaries with that ridiculous hair too? Go breast feed Ash or bake some fucking muffins or something!”

 Definitely _not_ a poet.

“Dean you are such a stubborn fucking asshole! I’m just trying to help you – “

“Don’t need your help Sammy, you’ve done enough _helping_ in the last twenty-four hours to last us both a fucking lifetime, so fuck off and leave me alone!”

The door opens and Castiel quickly moves into the dark alcove of one of the other doorways, breathing a sigh of relief when he remains unseen as Sam stalks past him and back down the stairs, muttering under his breath about wishing he was an only child.

Castiel waits for another couple of seconds; making sure that Sam has definitely gone before he comes out of his hiding place and tidies himself up a little, straightening his clothes and trying to corral his hair into some kind of conceivable style.

Vaguely satisfied, he strides towards the door with a confidence borne of being the most frightening thing most people are likely to encounter and raps with the back of his knuckles. He waits for a few moments and when he hears nothing, he decides that Dean is probably ignoring any attempts at polite entry in case it’s his brother, so he pushes the wooden paint-chipped door open.

“Sammy, if that’s you – “ Dean is just coming out of the adjoining bathroom, now dressed in a pair of sweats that are too loose on his hips, and a black wife-beater. He’s done a pretty good job of cleaning himself up in such a short time, as there’s not a trace of the red that was covering his collarbone and chest when he was in the ring. He stops dead when he sees Castiel, surprise flitting across his face momentarily, before he seems to mentally close himself off.

“Dean Winchester?” It doesn’t take a genius to work out why he sought out the older Winchester over the younger one. As soon as Balthazar had shoved their file – complete with black and white pictures – into his hands after Castiel’s phone call with Sam, he’d known that Dean was the one he wanted to meet.

The photos don’t come close to doing him justice.

Even watching him fight is nothing compared to seeing those powerful shoulders up close; the intricate design of the sleeve tattoo covering his left arm; the way the muscle in his jaw ticks when he tenses. But it’s his eyes that seem to shift through shades of green, even under the crappy fluorescent lighting, that have Castiel staring like he’s a barely functioning human being, let alone someone who puts people in comas for a living. Though, to be fair, that doesn’t happen _that_ often. Walker was just unlucky.

Dean blinks those striking green eyes. Once. Twice. “Krushnic, right?” He doesn’t wait for an answer, instead turning his back on Castiel, rooting around in his hold-all bag which is on the table against the wall. “The fuck are you doing here?”

A flash of annoyance immediately cuts right through the attraction. Stupid, brash asshole. “Your brother asked me to come.”

Dean lets out a little triumphant sound when he pulls out a small bag of some kind and turns back around, facing Castiel once more. It’s an Army medical kit. John Winchester had been a Marine. Curious that Dean would still have it.

“I take it this is about the fight?” Dean pulls out the chair from under the desk and drops down into it. “Or have you just showed up for shits and giggles? Gonna put another one of our fighters out of commission perhaps?” He threads a needle on the first try, looking like he’s done this way too many times to be healthy, and slowly pushes the sharp end into his skin adjacent to a jagged wound that curls round his  left shoulder, splicing through the ink there.

Castiel replies in his curtest tone. “I’m here to make reparations.”

At Dean’s scoff, Castiel feels his mood darken even more. “You should show me some respect.” After all he really doesn’t need to be here. And it’s _really_ starting to piss him off that Dean isn’t in the slightest bit intimidated by him. People who know who he is are usually more cautious around him and certainly wouldn’t dream of talking to him the way Dean is.

He’s done enough to earn the respect of people like Dean a thousand times over.

Dean shakes his head – seemingly to himself more than Castiel, as if he’s privy to an inside joke – a wide grin on his face as he focuses on sewing himself back together. Castiel watches in silence for a few moments until it becomes apparent that Dean isn’t going to offer any kind of apology or even say anything at all.

Castiel is starting to feel a little out of his depth, not used to things not going his way.

“I was expecting a warmer welcome.”

The other man still doesn’t look up from his task. “Expect away asshole. We’re royally fucked because of you.”

He palms twitch with the urge to ball his hands into fists and punch Dean in the jaw, but instead he reins it in, impatiently shifting his weight from one foot to the other. For some reason, the prospect of the haphazard prick – with no real care for rules or regulations and whose left hooks are too off centre to be anything other than laughable – disliking Castiel, bothers him. Only a little, but still, it’s strange; usually he couldn’t give a fuck what others think.

“I’m sorry about that.”

Dean snorts a laugh. “Yeah, thanks for that, man. Really appreciate you coming out.”

Castiel inhales a deep steadying breath and closes his eyes for a split second, regaining his equipoise. Dean doesn’t know him, so he has no idea how much of a big deal it is for him to apologise. The last time he said he was sorry was when he pushed his sister over in the sandpit when he was seven.

Dean doesn’t know this though. It’s not his fault. Even though he’s acting like a prize dickhead.

Finally, Dean finishes the suture, knotting and then snipping the end of the thread, messily stuffing the supplies back into the kit. He hesitates for a moment, letting out a barely audible sigh before turning his attention back to Castiel. This time though, Dean seems to actually _notice_ him, alert green eyes sliding over his body, before settling on Castiel’s face. His expression softens and for an instant, he looks apologetic and appears to mentally chastise himself as if he knows that he’s being an ass.

It’s a minor victory, so Castiel goes for broke, making a candid effort. Though why, he’s still not quite sure. It can’t just be because he’s pretty; he’s had plenty of attractive people that he’s not taken an inch of animosity from and yet he’s allowed Dean to be downright disrespectful.

“Would you let me buy you a drink, so that we can talk about it?” Because of course, right now that’s Castiel’s main concern.

It has nothing to do with the way Dean’s pink tongue sweeps over his plush bottom lip before he answers.

Nothing at all.

“Sure.” The easy smile that spreads across Dean’s face – smoothing away the frown from mere moments ago – is infectious and beautiful and Castiel finds himself fighting to not return it. “I mean, you owe me that at least, right?”

 

***

 

Dean’s picking at the label on the whisky bottle.

“That’s a sign of sexual frustration.” Castiel murmurs, loosely pointing the neck of his beer bottle at Dean. They’re sitting at the bar in the now-empty club. The club that Castiel knows that the Winchesters own. Dean had mentioned it back when they were on their first round.

Of course, thanks to Balthazar’s in-depth dossier, he already knew.

Castiel drains his fifth (sixth?) beer and snatches the bottle of liquor away from Dean in one swift, graceful move, setting it just out of Dean’s reach. The tension is already palpable and watching Dean’s surprisingly dextrous fingers working on the label will do Castiel’s self-control no favours.

Dean growls low in his throat, but doesn’t make a move to stop him.

“So, besides this place,” Castiel gestures around the large space, “what else do you and Sam do?” It’s not like he’s even asking out of politeness, because again, he knows.

Dean reaches into his pocket and pulls out a battered packet of smokes. He taps one out, lights it and takes a drag. Castiel is momentarily mesmerised by the way Dean’s lips pull on the cigarette, before he looks away, eyes on the boxing ring which seems so much closer now that the place is deserted. This really isn’t going the way he’d been anticipating. 

“In Camden, we have a club, which is legit. Gigs and stuff.” He exhales the smoke through his words and it’s taking Castiel every ounce of willpower not to act out some of the scenarios running through his head. Right now, he’s feeling about the furthest thing away from controlled and it’s frustrating and unnerving. “We also have a few contracts with the clubs in London to provide security.”

“No drugs?” Castiel asks.

“No drugs.” Dean confirms, looking at Castiel curiously, breathing in another lungful of smoke. It’s a habit he finds abhorrent, but on Dean…well, maybe not so much. “I’ve answered enough questions that you don’t really care about the answers to. Your turn.” Dean pauses for a second, sliding Castiel’s empty bottle from between them on the bar and moving it to his left for some unknown reason. “You don’t know us from a hole in the wall. Why did you come? You can’t tell me that my brother’s puppy-dog eyes translated well over the phone.”

Castiel lifts a shoulder in a shrug. “Bobby talked me into it. He holds you and your brother in high regard. If I’d have known that Gordon was going to be fighting in a few days, I probably wouldn’t have knocked him out.”

Dean arches an amused brow. “Probably?”

“He’s an asshole.” Castiel offers by way of an explanation.

“Hurt your pwecious ego did he?”

Castiel tilts his head, watching Dean carefully, trying to decipher the nuances in his expression. He’s teasing him? Flirting maybe? He’s never been very good at reading people. Ask him to analyse someone’s fighting style and he’ll be able to give a detailed rundown based on the way they throw a punch, but ask him whether the girl who has been twirling her hair around her finger all night likes him, and he’s at a loss. Mostly, it’s a redundant point as he’s usually the aggressor in regards to conquests. Though what’s happening here, he’s not even really sure anymore.

“Bobby tell you that?”

“No.” Dean smirks, stretching for the previously-confiscated bottle next to Castiel’s right elbow, and if Castiel's gaze trails down the expanse of muscles in Dean’s back, wishing that the tight wife-beater wasn’t in the way, right down to the sweatpants hugging his rather perfect ass, then who can judge him, really?

Dean snatches the whisky back and winks at Castiel, sinking onto his barstool, taking another swig. “But with your response, you just did.”

Not the impetuous, stupid asshole Castiel had been prepared to meet at all. Well, at least not the impetuous/stupid part any way. He’s still an asshole.

“You’re right though.” Dean taps some orange embers off the end of his cigarette into Castiel’s empty bottle (Ah, so _that’s_ why he commandeered it). The ash sizzles when it comes into contact with the tiny amount of liquid at the bottom. “Walker is a dick.”

“Was it an important fight?”

“Only because there was a lot of money riding on him.”

Castiel nods in understanding. “From what your brother said, Fergus Crowley is involved.”

“Yep.” Dean takes another big mouthful of the amber liquid, swallowing hard, looking uneasy for the first time tonight.

“Are you wanting me to fight in Gordon’s place?”

Dean looks at him then, handsome face relaxing again. “Well, yeah. But you’d have to throw the fight.”

 “I don’t throw fights.”

“Yeah, I figured you’d say that.”

“What?”

“You’re a straight player. Got to the top all honest.” He sends a little smirk in Castiel’s direction. “It’s admirable.”

It’s then – with that cocky smirk – that Castiel _finally_ realises what Dean is trying to do and has been since he stopped insulting him back in the dressing room. He’s absurdly annoyed with _himself_ that he’s allowed Dean to take it this far before he noticed.

The green-eyed man is certainly very shrewd, he’ll give him that.

“It won’t work, Dean. I know what you’re doing.”

Dean smiles serenely at him. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.” He leans in a little closer so that their shoulders are touching and lowers his voice to a rough whisper, all whisky and cigarettes. “Though if the way your eyes darken every time I lick my lips is any indication, it’s been working just fine.”

Castiel needs to say something to show that he’s still the one in control here. Something that will take that smug look off Dean’s face as he maintains eye contact with Castiel in his personal space. He deliberately drops his voice, mimicking Dean’s tone. “This whole seduction routine…Something you learned in prison?” It’s a little bit of a dick move, but Castiel has been feeling off-kilter in Dean’s presence all evening. It’s time to turn the fucking tables.

To his credit, Dean manages to cover his surprise for the most part, but Castiel can see it in his eyes when he pulls away. He’s apparently not used to it failing. Of course it never fails; the man is gorgeous. “Hn.” He flashes a quick smile, though it lacks all warmth. “Looks like I’m not the only one who’s been playing games.”

“Not games,” Castiel corrects quickly. “I just like to know what I’m walking into.”

“I get that.” Dean drops the butt of his cigarette into the bottle. “It’s smart.”

Castiel narrows his eyes, knowing that any compliments are now tainted, no matter how genuine. Judging by Dean’s knowing grin, Castiel is right to think that.

“Stop it.”

It comes out harsher than he means it though, as really, he’s honestly impressed by Dean’s duplicity. Which is probably a little bizarre, but it’s something Castiel would do; has done in fact. Anything for an advantage over an opponent. Anything to get the edge on someone. Anything to win. Seems like Dean has a similar attitude which is… _interesting._

In fact, overall, he’d go so far to say that he’s _more_ than impressed with Dean Winchester. So far.

Despite his sloppy left hook.

 

***

 

 _“Just flirt with him_ ,” Sammy had said. “ _It’ll work.”_ He said. _“Dude’s as big a slut as you.”_

Right now though, the Russian is looking mildly offended that Dean thought he would be that easy. For all of Dean’s bravado, his pride is a tiny bit wounded that he didn’t take the bait, ‘cause in all honesty, despite his hostility to the guy earlier – and that was mainly residual anger at Sammy for the insinuation that Dean’s ass was a commodity; something he resented in prison and he certainly resented his brother alluding to now – it’s not like it would have been a chore.

Sure, the dude looks like a tax accountant and speaks like he’s from the 1950s, but that dark, messy sex hair and stubbled jaw? And those fucking blue eyes? Undoubtedly hot. So in reality, it hasn’t been all that hard to flirt with him; picking at the label on his bottle as he looks at him from under his eyelashes, letting him get a good look at his lips every time he takes a drag off a cigarette.

In fact, Dean would actually say that it’s been a little bit fun trying to rile Castiel up; he’s so stoic and painstakingly put together – the only indication that he’s human is his crazy hair – that Dean really wants to watch him come apart at the seams. Just to see what would happen when he loses his composure. It’d probably be like a fucking star exploding or some shit.

Castiel’s blue eyes are regarding him carefully as if Dean’s a puzzle written in a foreign language that he’s never heard of and isn’t even sure he wants to learn, and right there and then, Dean resolves to make it his life work to deliberately fuck with Castiel at every given opportunity.

“No more games.” Castiel suddenly says, breaking the silence. Though of course, they both know that that isn’t true, because his next words are, “Go one-on-one with me. You win; I’ll do the match for free. I win; I walk away.”

‘Cause, really? How can that be anything other than a power play?

Dean knows that he’s grinning as he stares at Castiel. “Why?”

“Why not?” Castiel counters.

“Besides the obvious?” Dean gestures to where Castiel is all grace and poise on the barstool. And fuckin’ really? Who sits at a bar _gracefully_? “You know, you being the champ and all.”

The corner of Castiel’s mouth curls up into a small smile. “I promise that I won’t do the whole one-punch thing. I’ll even fight you with one arm behind my back, if it’ll make you feel better.”

Smug douchebag. “Hey! I can hold my own against you, y’know.”

The dark, challenging look that he gets back in return actually makes him shiver. “Prove it.”

Dean has no real response to that, other than the fucking obvious. “You’re insane.”

“It has been said.”

Goddamn. This guy is absolutely _nothing_ like he was told. In all the ways that count.

“It’s your best shot.” Castiel offers genially, filling the silence as Dean considers his options.

“How is it fair?”

“In the exact same way that it was _fair_ of you trying to use your looks to your advantage.” Castiel’s smile turns devious as he spreads his hands in a helpless gesture. It might be one of the hottest things that Dean has ever seen. “Just levelling the playing field here.”

Dude _may_ have a point. “Can we not do this like civilised people? Can I not bribe you with money? Or threaten your loved ones or some shit?”

Castiel’s blue eyes twinkle with mirth. “You think I need money? I don’t want your money.” Dean makes a note of how he doesn’t broach the last part of his sentence, which pretty much confirms the rumours that Castiel flies solo.

“Man-“

“It’s a one-time only offer.”

So now that his charms have failed him – and there’s a first time for everything – what choice does he really have but to go along with what the mad bastard wants, lest he and his stupid asshole brother be turned into pig chow?

Dean sighs. “Yeah, alright. You crazy Russian wanker. I’ll fight you.”


	5. Chapter Four - It'll get you in a lot of trouble thinking, Castiel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this chapter may deviate from Snatch _quite a bit_ (Unless there are some _very_ interesting outtakes of Jason Statham and Brad Pitt somewhere that have yet to be unleashed unto the world) but I hope you’ll be able to find it in your hearts to forgive me.

Being in prison had taught Dean lots of things. However, undoubtedly the most useful – besides the stereotype of dropping the soap in the shower being a cliché for a fucking reason – was to always expect the unexpected. Whether it was a riot caused by an inmate accidentally spilling juice on another’s part of the table or someone getting shanked because they got laundry duty over metalshop, it remained infinitely true. Each day was different and it had kept Dean on his toes.

However, that all spectacularly goes to shit when Cas is standing before him dressed only in a pair of dark jeans; ugly-ass trench coat and black button-down shed and neatly folded – yes, fucking _folded_ – in his corner of the ring.

He vaguely remembers getting told by one of the teachers in juvie not to judge a book by its cover or something equally inane; advice he’d dismissed. Until now, ‘cause _holy fucking shit_.

Castiel; the guy who comes across as a prim and proper banker or some shit and who uses unnecessary words like ‘reparations’ when ‘apologise’ will do, has fucking tattoos. And they make Dean’s sleeve – the one he started when he was inside, and only just added the finishing touches to a few months back – look like goddamn _child’s play_.

And underneath that fucking stunning ink, his actual body is beautiful in its own right; strong and lithe, not an inch of spare fat, just pure muscle and hidden strength.

He’s not even sure where to focus his attention; there’s so much gorgeous pale skin and exquisite art on display, that Dean can do nothing but stare like a fucking idiot. There’s two individual pieces that really stand out though; the greyscale one that takes up most of the right of his abdomen and the writing just above his left hip in what Dean assumes is Russian. What’s the official language of Russia? Cyrillic?

“What does the writing say?” He blurts without thinking.

Castiel grins, as if he knows _exactly_ how distracting he is without his clothes on. Bastard. “It’s err...” He pauses, licking his lips, “blizok lokotok, da ne ukusish.” And hot _damn_ if Russian doesn’t sound fucking beautiful rolling off his tongue.

“Thanks for that.” Dean smiles sardonically. “In English?”

“It’s an old Russian proverb. I don’t think that there’s an English equivalent, but it basically means ‘It only seems too easy’. My mother used to say it a lot to me.”

“And the Alice In Wonderland thing?”

Castiel tilts his head in a bird-like manner that suggests fragility and innocence. Two things that he is most certainly _not_. “I like Alice In Wonderland?” He says unhelpfully.

“There’s no reason behind it? You got it done just because? ‘Cause quite frankly dude, I’ve only known you for a few hours and I know that everything you do has a reason. You’re not arbitrary.”

The other man nods, apparently impressed by Dean’s analysis. “You’re right, but I’m still not going to tell you.”

Asshole. 

***

 

Castiel feels more like he’s on equal footing with Dean now.

Because _this_ he knows, _this_ he understands; where he really comes into his own – ‘cause of course he’s a good fucking fighter – but what separates him from a lot of his competitors is the fact that he actually takes the time out to watch any opponent he’s matched with. Find out about their history; where they’ve learned their skill, what they’ve been through in their lives that have contributed to their style. For Dean, it’s his prison time; because of that, his method for winning is largely built around defence, which means that Castiel repeatedly attacking won’t do any good. Dean is exceptionally talented at countering.

Which means that he’s going to have to wait it out until Dean goes for him first.

“Which rules are we working with here Dean? You choose.”

Dean snorts a laugh from the corner diagonally opposite to the one Castiel is in, his naked back to him as he wraps his left hand. “Certainly not Russian fist fighting.”

A corner of Castiel’s mouth turns up into a smile. “That leaves us with Irish stand down or London prize ring.”

“Dude, I am _so_ not going toe-to-toe with you.”

“London PR it is then.”

“Appropriate, being as we’re in London and all.”

And that’s apparently the only warning he’s getting, before Dean turns and is in the centre of the ring, a lot stealthier than Castiel had been fully prepared for, meaning that Dean’s first swing actually catches him off-guard. It’s more of a warning shot than a real hit and when he looks at Dean, the other man is grinning from ear-to-ear from behind his raised fists, and looking so fucking _beautiful_ that Cas can barely stand it.

“Lucky shot. Don’t get cocky.”

“Yeah, yeah _Cas_.”

The nickname distracts him enough that his answering punch falls too short, a graze against the shoulder, and it’s a perfect opportunity for Dean to do what he does best; counter. This time, the blow catches Castiel just under the chin and sends him stumbling backwards a step.

Dean Winchester is getting under his skin. This cannot happen.

“Are you sure you’re the champion? I mean, I thought you were supposed to be good or some shit, but here I am, a prison rat, getting the best of you.”`

Castiel responds to Dean’s taunt with a solid hit to the other man’s chest. He’s careful not to aim for the ribs because he doesn’t want to _really_ hurt him.

Well, not yet any way.

Dean counters again straightaway, but Castiel gracefully ducks under the tattooed arm (sloppy left hook) and uses the opportunity to get into Dean’s space, landing a couple of relatively tame blows to Dean’s jaw and neck.  This close, he can see the light dusting of freckles across Dean’s nose.

Dean’s hands are on his chest, burning hot and pushing him away quickly before Castiel can do anymore damage. The shove is forceful enough that it takes a split second for Castiel to recover and in that time Dean has thrown another, stronger punch, this time with his dominant arm.

“You know,” Castiel pants, managing to avoid it by mere inches, dancing backwards with enough evident skill, that for an instant Dean looks amazed. “I’m still waiting for you to actually fucking hit me. At the moment, you’re just _playing_ at boxing.”

Dean grins, shark-like and predatory. “Want me to hit you Cas?”

“Well,” Castiel returns the grin, beginning to enjoy the back-and-forth that they seem to be building up. With everyone else – even Balthazar – he’s all business. This? This is substantially more enjoyable. “I want you to _try_.”

Dean shakes his head, but he’s still smiling. “You are such a fucking psychopath, Krushnic.”

“Yeah,” This time, Castiel’s punch is a proper one in that it strikes Dean’s cheek hard enough to bruise. Irrationally, he kind of likes the idea of creating marks on Dean’s skin. It’s possessive in a way that he wouldn’t usually allow himself to be, but then again, he’s broken a lot of his own rules tonight. What’s one more? “You’re not the first person to tell me that.”

“Won’t be the last either,” Dean mutters, bringing his hand up to the injury, feeling gently to see if the skin is broken.

Castiel manages to dodge the next fist that Dean throws and counters with one to his ribs, but as he’s pulling his arm back from the blow, Dean grips his wrist and yanks Castiel forward so that their chests slam together and they both just stay there momentarily, chests rising and falling in time, sharing breath and heat, and then Dean dives forwards, slanting their mouths together, and it takes a split second for Castiel to do anything other than tense and lock up. He shoves Dean away, hard enough that he has to catch himself on the ropes and then Castiel is back on him, cupping his face in his hands and forcefully pressing a sloppy, desperate kiss to his lips.

Dean reciprocates instantly, sliding his arms around Castiel’s waist, hauling him closer, like he’s in charge of this situation. Castiel seeks to rectify that by sliding his right hand away from Dean’s tender cheek and swiftly jabbing his four fingers into the pressure point near Dean’s armpit, at the same time, he’s hooking his ankle around Dean’s and wrenching his leg out from under him.

Castiel watches with barely contained glee as with a yelp, Dean crumples to the mat awkwardly, splayed out on his back.

There’s a shocked cry of “Cheat!” before Castiel calmly drops a knee down on Dean’s stomach and nudges it into his ribs, not hard enough to really hurt, but knocking the other man’s breath away and making the him wince all the same.

“You started it.”

He can _feel_ Dean’s rumbling-slightly-wheezy laughter. “Am I getting under your skin Cas? Not sure what to do about it?”

“Oh,” He smiles darkly. “I have plenty of ideas of what to do about you Dean.”

He doesn’t miss Dean’s full body shiver.

“It’s a shame that you’re determined to cheat. I would have loved to win against you properly.”  He moves off him as if to stand, but Dean’s rising up, reaching for the waistband of Cas’s jeans and begins to pull them open with those nimble fingers that Castiel had been fantasising about less than an hour ago.

“If you’d rather, we can still fight…”

“How is this fair?” He gestures at Dean’s hands yanking the zipper of his jeans down.

A flash of white teeth. “Just levelling the playing field, Cas.”

This man will be the death of him.

It’s right around when his pants and boxers are getting tangled around his ankles that Castiel realises that he was utterly wrong about Dean; he’s not a mess at all. He’s chaotic and haphazard, yes, but he knows exactly what he’s doing. No matter how the rules change, the game remains the same as far as Dean’s concerned; he can adapt and change to facilitate his endgame and _svyatoy yebat,_ if that isn’t hot.

“Come here,” Dean’s grin is wicked and really, there’s no way that Castiel would ever have been able to resist this man. He would love to spend some real time taking Dean apart, making him scream; show him categorically, once-and-for-all who is in charge, but right now? He really just wants to touch him.

So he does, crawling between Dean’s legs, kicking his jeans the rest of the way off, and then he’s leaning over Dean, breathing in his musky scent, pressing kisses to his neck and jaw, moving towards those gorgeous lips, groaning when his naked cock rubs against Dean’s still-clothed one, and Castiel really needs to remedy that as soon as he can bear to not have his lips on Dean’s skin.

Dean breaks the kiss first, breathless and panting against Castiel’s lips. “Condoms? Lube?”

It physically hurts to pull away. “I have a condom. In my jeans pocket. No lube.”

“Okay.” And then he’s lifting his hips up to push his sweatpants down his thighs, and Castiel sits back on his heels, pulling them off the rest of the way. He can’t bring himself to be sorry about having to stop kissing Dean, as now he gets to see him in all his splendour. And he is fucking glorious; there’s a light sheen of sweat clinging to his flawless skin, his cock is flushed and hard and curved up towards his stomach, and then Castiel notices the tattoo on Dean’s thigh.

He’s beginning to think that they both might have a bit of a fetish.

“Cas, are you gonna fuck me or just stare at me?”

“Pretty bossy for the one who lost, aren’t you?” Castiel flashes Dean a quick smirk before he reaches back for his discarded jeans, fumbling for his wallet and finally pulling a foil packet out.

“As fucking _if_ I lost.”

Castiel decides not to dignify Dean’s bullshit with a response; instead he sucks his index finger into his mouth and then he’s pressing it to Dean’s entrance, teasing, before pushing in a little way.

His eyes flick up to Dean to make sure that his face isn’t twisted in pain or anything, but all he gets is a heated gaze and Dean’s legs parting further in a silent plea for more.

At this stage, Castiel really isn’t in a position to be refusing Dean _anything_ , so he obliges, sliding the finger further in, and a few moments later – encouraged by Dean’s deep groan – adds another and then another, until he’s three fingers deep and Dean is writhing on them like a five dollar whore and Castiel is completely certain that he’s never seen anything hotter.

“Krushnic. Fuck me. Come on.” Dean’s already ripped open the foil packet and virtually throws the condom at Castiel, who would laugh at his desperation, except that he’s in pretty much the exact same state himself.

Any vague illusion of willpower is shattered when Dean arches his back invitingly, and Castiel gently pulls his fingers out, rolls the condom on and lines himself up.

“You sure?”

A roll of Dean’s hips and a small whine is the only answer he gets.

There’s nothing but sweat and spit slicking the way and it takes a few seconds for the tight ring of muscle to give way, but when it does Cas is pushing himself inside, Dean clenched around him and it’s hot and tight and so fucking perfect that Castiel doesn’t even care that Dean is staring up at him with a smug, satisfied, Cheshire Cat smile that indicates he thinks he’s won.

“Fuck,” Castiel grits his teeth, head dropping to Dean’s shoulder, palms flat against the ring mat on either side of the other man. Sweat drips down the nape of his neck with the strain of keeping his thrusts in check; holding back from pounding into Dean like he so badly wants to.

Dean crosses his legs at the ankles, behind Castiel’s back which allows him better access and he pulls out a scant few inches and then pushes back in a little bit harder. He feels Dean’s nails scratching down his back and he growls lowly in his throat, encouraged to repeat the action.

“Tell me what the tattoo means…” Dean nips at Cas’s neck with his teeth, then soothes with his lips and tongue. Castiel ignores him whilst he focuses on drawing out slowly, almost all the way out, and then thrusts in hard enough to make them both cry out.

“You think…I’m that easy?”

Dean cocks an eyebrow and then flicks his gaze to where their bodies are fused together, the insinuation clear. “Yeah Cas… yeah I do.”

Castiel starts to build up his the pace of his thrusts, his hips moving urgently, needing to get closer, deeper. “Not like I could really resist… I’m only human.”

“Oh fuck Cas,” Dean’s laboured moans are punctuated by Cas’s own as he thrusts in harder and faster, chasing release in the slick channel of Dean’s body. “y-…you…” Dean’s breath stutters after a particularly brutal thrust that has Castiel biting his lip to supress his own noise of pleasure.  “…coulda fooled me.”

Castiel is momentarily pleased with himself until he feels the powerful thighs that are around his waist tense and in one smooth motion, he’s on his back underneath Dean, the bright lights above the ring glaring down on him, but that becomes a negligible issue when Dean sinks down the few inches that Cas has slipped out during the manoeuvre, causing the muting of all his other senses. Holy fuck.

Dean leans over Castiel, hands braced on his chest and begins to languidly roll his hips, driving Castiel to desperation with how amazing it feels, but he needs more, always more. He slides his hands up Dean’s thighs, round to his ass and squeezes hard, making both of them gasp; Dean from the rough touch, Cas from the sudden constricting tightness around his cock.

With every slick glide of their bodies as Dean rides him, impaling himself on Castiel’s dick over and over with increasingly loud moans, Castiel can see himself getting that much closer to losing everything he’s worked so hard for just to chase this feeling again.

Just to have the other man like this again.

Dean is fucking wild and electrifying, and it’s as intoxicating as any drug; only twice as lethal, because even buried deep inside him, Castiel wants him. _All_ of him. Logically, he knows that he can’t; he’s not _allowed_ to want this fucking hurricane of a man, but there’s no place here for his usual rationality, not when Dean looks and feels this damned _good_.

Castiel has always treated sex as perfunctory; something to help him relax and relieve stress, and fake the intimacy that deep down he knows that he wants without the danger of getting emotionally attached. Even with Balthazar, it’s never quite been enough to make him crave a relationship, but he’s kidding himself if he believes that tonight hasn’t been a complete game changer.

It’s with that thought, and Dean’s rapidly faltering rhythm, that he grips the other’s man’s ass so hard that Dean actually growls, and he comes harder than he has in a long time, vision crackling around the edges and heat surging through him in the same powerful way that it does after a victory in the ring; pulled from his fucking bones and dragged through his entire being, scorching like wildfire.

“Fuck, _fuck Dean_.”

He lets his head fall back against the mat, waiting for that stupid husky, teasing laugh, but Dean is too preoccupied with his own orgasm, still fucking himself on Cas’s cock like it’s the only thing in the world he wants to do.

“Cas…for fuck’s sake… touch me.”

Castiel briefly considers making Dean beg for it, but after the push-and-pull that they’ve had going on for the last few hours, he’s pretty sure that Dean would actually straight up kill him, so he complies, wrapping his hand around the solid length of Dean's cock and starts stroking in a rhythm that matches the rapid rise and fall of Dean’s chest, until the beautiful man tips his head back, revealing the sweat-shiny hollow of his throat and comes over Cas’s fist and stomach with a drawn out gasp.

“Jesus fucking Christ, Cas.” He’s still circling his hips as he comes down from his high, face flushed and heavy-lidded eyes. “ _Jesus_.” He sucks in a deep, stuttering breath as Castiel closes his eyes, just content with feeling the weight of Dean on him, around him.

“I’d call that a draw, wouldn’t you? So what happens now? Technically we both won.”

“Can’t argue there.”

“Did you just make a joke?” Dean sounds incredulous. “An innuendo no less? I’m impressed. And disgusted that you have given yourself over to the dark side so easily. And by the dark side, I of course mean humanity.”

Castiel huffs out a laugh, sending vibrations right through where their bodies are still joined, and he cracks his eyes open to look up at Dean, who’s looking down at him, eyes soft and appraising, as if he’s not quite sure what just happened.

Fuck. There’s no way that this can happen again.

Which is why it’s odd that he chooses to seal his fate with the next few words that come out of his mouth, as he absently strokes the soft skin of the tattooed thigh pressed against his side.

“Let me know the details. I’ll be there.”

He doesn’t need to look to know that Dean’s smiling; he can hear it in his voice. “Thanks Cas. ‘Preciate it.”

There’s a beat of a second, then, “You ready to tell me what the tat is about yet?”

“Nope.”

“Asshole.”


	6. Chapter Five - Proper fucked?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of background on Cas in this chapter.
> 
>  
> 
> Thanks for the comments and kudos etc. You guys are wonderful.

Dean is considering the pros and cons of fratricide.

On the one hand, killing his gangly brother who slurps too loudly when he eats his cereal and spends an unhealthy amount of time flicking his stupid hair around like a fucking horse could be at least a _little_ cathartic. Especially if he went for some ironic killing like in Se7en where he made him eat his own hair with milk or something.

On the other? Well, he’d be lying if he said that everything he did wasn’t for Sammy. Killing their father, moving to England where it rains at _least_ 98% of the time, taking it up the ass from a crazy blue-eyed Russian.

Ah, yes.

Castiel Krushnic.

Ironically, it’s that train of thought that leads him right back into what Sam is currently whining about.

“Dean, for the final time, are you going to tell me what happened last night? Am I gonna have to start pulling money out of our business accounts and finding us one-way tickets to some God-awful hole in a third-world county?”

“Is it that time of the month already?” Dean has a bit of a hangover and not just from the alcohol. His ass is a little sore and he is no mood to be dealing with younger brothers who don’t take menacing hisses of ‘ _Sammy, shut the fuck up’_ as a cue to... well, shut the fuck up.

He barely resists the urge to bang his head off the office table. It would hurt like a sonofabitch and wouldn’t really achieve anything other than creating yet another place where he aches, but at least it might make Sam pause for fucking breath.

“Another girl joke? Hilarious Dean. Your originality is to be commended.”

“Krushnic is doing the fight.”

Dean sees all the tension drain from Sam’s oversized body as it sags with relief, like a puppet whose strings have been cut. However, as usual with Sam, the reprieve is short-lived. He always seems to find shit to worry about even when there is literally _nothing_. When he was six, he was supposed to be the innkeeper in the nativity and he’d made himself sick with worry over it. Literally sick. He didn’t star in any more school plays after that.

Though that could have been because by the time the next Christmas rolled around, Dean was in Juvie and Sammy was way too young to make his own costume. That had always been his big brother’s job.

“How much?”

“He didn’t want paying.”

“What?”

Dean doesn’t bother answering, instead choosing to massage his temples in preparation for the barrage of questions. In the cold light of day, he’s… not quite regretting – it’s too strong a word and he’d never be able to regret anything that resulted in Sammy not being turned into pig food, despite his earlier musings – but certainly, he’s feeling a little _off_ with his decision.

“Dean, he can’t just be doing it out of the kindness of his heart. From what I’ve heard, he doesn’t do things arbitrarily.”

Dean chokes out a laugh, remembering his words to Cas last night. And where did _Cas_ even come from? One minute, he was using it to rile the apathetic asshole up and then the next it seemed to just roll off his tongue, natural as anything. Of course, it was probably helped along by the awesome sex.

“Does it matter? He’s doing the fight and that’s the important thing.”

Sam narrows his eyes, but says nothing. Dean decides to wait him out; Sam never could stand long silences. Whilst his brother is busy passively aggressively tapping his foot and sighing like an impatient mother waiting by the school gates, Dean turns his attention to his Irish coffee that’s probably more Irish than actual coffee, but he owns clubs, dammit. He’d be an idiot if he didn’t take full advantage of the free alcohol once in a while.

“Did you fuck him?”

The question is not unexpected, but the angry way in which it’s asked, is. Dean splutters unattractively into his beverage and swivels around on the chair to face his brother again, wiping his chin on the back of his sleeve.

“And if I did? You were the one who was telling me to use my,” He shudders comically, remembering the words coming out of his brother’s mouth, “’blow jobs lips’ to my advantage.”

“Yeah!” Sam replies, throwing his arms up in the air in a frustrated gesture. “I didn’t believe for a second that you’d actually do it!”

“Well, what did you think was gonna happen? You put two morally loose, attractive dudes in a room together with alcohol and you’re actually surprised?”

“Firstly,” Sam raises his index finger to illustrate. “You just called him attractive.” The next finger goes up. “Secondly, where’d you do it?” Then the ring finger. “Thirdly, was it any good?”

“Firstly,” Dean mimics, raising his right middle finger to flip his brother off. “It was a generalisation. _I’m_ attractive, Krushnic is…” He trails off, looking for a word that doesn’t sound like he’s ripped it straight out of a Catherine Cookson. “not unattractive.” He hedges, deliberately choosing to ignore his brother’s stupid grin. “Secondly,” His left middle finger joins the first. “In the ring at Purgatory.”

Sam screws his face up.

“And thirdly. It’s none of your fucking business.” Dean drops his hands and spins away from his brother, back to his coffee and the blank office wall which would never ask such ridiculous questions.

“Dean, you did it in the ring? Where people have to fight and… ugh. I hope you used protection.”

“Nope,” Dean sing-songs, bringing the mugful of coffee to his lips. “Bodily fluids _everywhere_ Sammy.”

 

***

“Cassie!”

Castiel hits the punching bag extra hard, pretending that he didn’t hear Balthazar’s screech from across the gym. Though in reality, he’s pretty certain that people seventeen miles away in Dartford heard him.

“Don’t ignore me Cassie!”

He’s not quite sure when Balthazar became comfortable enough with him to start using nicknames, because when they’d first met – Castiel being all weak and pathetic with his sister’s stupid teddy backpack that contained everything he owned, clutched to his chest, looking like some delicate twink, that he was _definitely_ far from – the Englishman had been nothing other than kind and respectful. He’s pretty sure that it took at least a year for the wariness to leave his eyes every time he looked at Castiel.

And yet Dean Winchester.

_Cas._

He gives the bag a hit that would flatten any human opponent, sending the thing swinging wildly on its metal chain.

“Woah, woah! Castiel calm down.” Balthazar side-steps around him and Castiel doesn’t dare let himself give in to his sort-of-but-not-friend and his soothing voice.

“What is it Cassie?” He sounds tentative, worried and Castiel feels a twinge of guilt in his gut. Balthazar – for all his grandiosity and bullshit – has never been anything other than a good friend to him.

He was just turned twenty when he’d arrived in England; shepherded off the plane and through Heathrow airport, new to the country without much of an idea of what he was going to do. He wasn’t naïve in any way, shape or form – not anymore at least – but that didn’t stop him from wondering how he was going to make it work, how he was going to afford to eat, where he was going to sleep.

He’d found a nearby pub, ordered his first ever beer and sat at the bar trying not to let his anxiety show.  Fear was yet another weakness that people exploited for their own ends. He’d seen that first-hand back home and he was not keen for it to happen again, so when the overly happy blonde man approached him and asked him if he was okay, Castiel had pulled his small pocket knife – the engraved one that his mother had given him for his sixteenth birthday – and pushed it gently against the other man’s abdomen; a warning more than a threat.

Balthazar hadn’t seemed bothered in the slightest. Dazzling smile in place, he simply asked, “Have you eaten?”

Castiel sucks in a deep, steadying breath and then another. In, out, in, out.

“Cassie, I know you’re not big on the feelings thing, but please tell me what’s wrong? You can’t keep your emotions bottled up forever.”

He has a point. Castiel has never told a soul in England why he’s even here and the thought that the only person who might truly understand is some loud-mouthed asshole who he’s fucked once, is enough to make him want to scream and break every precious thing he has in his apartment until there’s nothing left but splinters and dust.

“I’m okay.” He says eventually. “It’s fine.” He meets Balthazar’s eyes. The man does not look convinced in the slightest. He concentrates on compartmentalising it all. Contain and control. The first two things he learned when he started training under Bobby and Balthazar. “Will you spar with me? I’ve got a fight in a few days and I could do with some practice.”

 

***

 

It’s the evening of the fight and Dean is more than nervous. He hasn’t seen or heard from Cas since their… whatever, a few days ago and although he’s been made aware of the Russian’s arrival, he’d still feel better if he could see the blue-eyed fucker.

He doesn’t want to think too hard about why that is. He shrugs it off as natural concern for his and his brother’s asses which are currently riding on…

Nope. Poor choice of words.

“Hello Dean,”

He barely contains his eye roll when Bela sashays up to him. Woman is a femme fatale in every sense of the word. Beautiful, cunning, dangerous and a total wildcat in the sack. However, she is a _crazy bitch,_ which offsets the nicer aspects of her personality quite well.

“Bela.” He nods at her, not taking his eyes off the ring, which from his vantage point at the upper circle of the club; he has a clear view of. The place is all velvet and sophistication. Which seems ever so fallacious considering a lot of the people in this room are baying for the fighters’ blood.

“I’ve heard that the champ is fighting on behalf of you and that delicious brother of yours. Any truth to it?”

“Technically, yes.” He doesn’t enlighten her about Crowley’s involvement. She’d figure out straight away that the fight is rigged. And then they’d be even more screwed. If that was possible.

“I’ve never seen him fight. Is he as good as they say?”

Dean feels a phantom twinge in his armpit where the asshole jabbed him. He shrugs. “He’s good enough.”

Bela opens her mouth to say something, but then the main lights dim and the ringside ones brighten, distracting her. He can’t say he’s not thankful. The music changes from background noise to a stronger beat that has the rather large crowd cheering.

Crowley’s bouts are always more polished than the Winchesters. Theirs are total underground stuff; people standing close to the ring, plastic beer cups in their hands (never glasses during fights, just in case punters get ideas when their fighter begins to lose) and grimy music. Crowley’s place is altogether more slick and rehearsed. Dean hates it, but right now it’s not like he has much of a choice.

He sees the familiar tatty peak of a cap down by the ring and he’s glad that it’s Bobby here with Cas. Bobby Singer is one of the very few people that he trusts with his – and more importantly, Sam’s – life. At poker on Saturday night, Bobby had questioned him briefly about what went down the night he and Cas… _y’know_ , because apparently Castiel has been off his game since.

He’s kind of proud of himself for managing to throw the wanker for a loop after only one encounter. Maybe he’ll get to see the supernova after all.

Dean will deny it to his dying day, but his breath hitches slightly when he catches sight of Cas ringside. He’s wearing black sweats that are barely clinging to his naked tattooed hips and Dean feels a sharp flare of want start from the pit of his stomach and pulse outwards. He looks completely focused, and even from this distance, Dean can see blue eyes that are hard and emotionless; a complete contrast to the other day, when they were full of reluctant admiration…

Dean needs to stop that thought right there. No good can come from trying to harness someone like Castiel Krushnic.

He switches his gaze over to the man who is now in the opposite corner of the ring. Dean’s heard stuff about The Golem, but nothing compares to seeing him in the flesh; dude is huge. And not just tall; though he’s gotta be at least seven foot, but he’s built like a brick shithouse, rippling muscles and brute strength.

Cas – who isn’t exactly tiny himself – looks like a child in comparison to the behemoth.

He gets why Crowley made the decision; After all, Cas is the champion – for good reason, though Dean would never tell the asshole that – and he’s won more bouts than any other fighter currently on the circuit, so it needed to be someone that might be able to actually win against Cas, to avoid accusations that the bout is rigged, but that doesn’t mean that the guy couldn’t crush Cas’s pretty head between his meaty bear paws without batting an eyelid.

And whilst in theory, that may be a decent outcome – Castiel loses the fight as he’s supposed to and Dean doesn’t have to think about tattoos and blue eyes anymore – strangely enough, he doesn’t actually want the Russian dead.

Despite the fact he’s an asshole.

 

***

 

Castiel makes a deliberate point of not seeking out green eyes in the crowd. Dean will have to be here, even if it’s just to check that Castiel is doing his job properly.

Which he will.

He’s mostly managed to avoid thinking about Dean Winchester, though from time-to-time he has invaded his thoughts. It’s annoying, but not entirely unpleasant as the memories are some pretty fine ones.

It might be a little more frequent than he’s trying to kid himself into believing. Usually, before a match he finds a warm willing body for the night, or failing that – Balthazar – but he just hasn’t been able to bring himself to do it, because they wouldn’t have the same green eyes. Really, it’s a little pathetic.

Looking at his opponent – who of course, he’s done research on – he was prepared for his size, but even still, seeing it up close is more than a little unnerving. Though, he has to remember that the fight is rigged; they’re not actually going up against each other for real, which should be enough to temper any malcontent.

It isn’t.

He and The Golem, from whose file he knows his real name is actually John –and that had been an endless source of amusement for Balthazar when he read it aloud over Cas’s shoulder – shake eachother’s hands in the middle of the ring, somehow trying to enforce the illusion that this is a gentleman’s sport and that they’re not about to punch each other unconscious.

It’s archaic and it pisses him off, but he does it for the sake of sportsmanship.

It’s then that he makes the mistake of looking up through the crowd. And he sees Dean. He’s leaning against the back wall of the upper circle with his arms crossed defensively over his chest, looking so strikingly attractive in a leather jacket and so thoroughly detached from everybody else around him that just for a second, Castiel feels something that he thought had been long since buried.

In that split second, he’s hit with an epiphany; the revelation of exactly why Dean bothers him so much.

He’s Castiel’s equal.

Everyone else he’s met; Balthazar, Bobby, other fighters, other _fucks_ , he’s never connected with them in the way that he does with Dean because they’re either too good or not enough for him. As soon as Balthazar had given him the file on the Winchesters, Castiel had _known_ it was Dean he wanted to speak with, even though Sam was just as physically attractive as his brother – in a different way from Dean – but it wasn’t Dean’s looks that stopped Castiel from punching him in his smart mouth. It’s because when he’d read about Dean’s history, he’d seen parts of himself reflected back in frightening clarity.

What the elder brother had selflessly sacrificed time and time again to keep the younger sibling safe.

Dean is the complete antithesis of Castiel; the reverse, so they may be at opposite ends of a scale, but the point is that it’s the _same fucking scale_.

The girl next to Dean – the one Castiel hadn’t even really noticed – leans in closer to him, her lips brushing against his ear and as he listens, that same Cheshire cat grin that he’d had plastered on his face whilst he was underneath Castiel, makes an appearance again.

Castiel feels a tight sensation prickling across his skin, painful like shattered glass dragging across his nerve endings, but he can’t look away, can’t do anything but endure the sharp sting of betrayal, even though he knows Dean owes him nothing. Once again, logic has packed up its bags, and for the second time in the space of a week – and twelve years – Castiel allows himself to just _feel_.

He’s surprised at how hot the rage burns and how fiercely the pain claws at his heart, but it’s all kinds of liberating just to _let go_.

In hindsight, it may have been a bad idea.

He doesn’t even realise that the match is over until the crowd’s loud cheers startle him away from Dean and the referee is holding his arm aloft. “Your winner, Castiel ‘The Hitman’ Krushnic!”

Dazed, Castiel looks to where his opponent is unconscious at his feet, a trickle of blood escaping from the giant's ear and pooling on the mat.

.

.

.

“Whoops.”


	7. Chapter Six - “A righteous infliction of retribution, manifested by an appropriate agent.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual, thanks for your support guys. Means the world!

Dean has nearly finished a whole bottle of Jagermeister by himself. It’s not really how he envisaged the night ending, but at least it’s not as bad as the time he ended up getting accosted by a group of hookers, who were probably at least great-grandmothers, judging by the distinct lack of teeth that weren’t made from acrylic.

That was not a fun night. Before then, he’d always imagined that removable teeth would equal enjoyable blow jobs. But no.

A whole world of _no_.

Dean shudders.

The dark green bottle is loosely grasped between his fingers as he sprawls gracelessly on the couch in the upstairs VIP area of Purgatory – they really didn’t fancy taking their current dire situation back to The Underworld with them, after their frenetic bolt from Crowley’s place – whilst Sam frets like a 15-year-old girl trying to work out how to tell her parents that she’s pregnant.

The oblivion that Dean has been hoping to drink himself into is coming up on him in a slow crawl, unfortunately giving him more than enough time to think about the Russian and if he’s the one who has been playing Dean all along.

It’s maddening, because Dean really thought he had the guy pegged from the get-go; straight-laced, takes himself too seriously, doesn’t get close to people ‘cause it’s easier that way. Hell, Cas practically _radiated_ all those issues. Even behind his passive demeanour.

So why then, does Dean feel like he’s missing a vital piece of the puzzle?

He looks to his brother, who – of course – is still worrying.

“Sam, just chill out. You’re gonna pace a hole in the floor.” He’s not sure how much of his sentence is decipherable. Can’t bring himself to care.

Sam stops dead and just stares like his brother has just said that he hates pie all of a sudden. Which Dean would _never_ say. He could go for some right about now actually.

Fuck, he’s going to miss pie when he’s dead.

“Well I’m glad to see that you’re climbing the walls in fucking anxiety!”

Dean shrugs loosely, letting the bottle slip from his grip. It makes a dull thud as it lands on the plush carpet. “What would you like me to do Sam?”

“I don’t know! Think of something!”

Dean shuffles forward on the couch and makes a valiant effort to stand up. It takes two attempts, which considering his state of inebriation, isn’t too bad.

“Alright Sammy, you show me how to control a wild fucking Russian and I’ll show you how to control an unhinged, pig-feeding gangster!”

Sam falls silent and Dean takes the opportunity to dig around for the crumpled cigarette packet in his pocket and eventually lights up. His hands absolutely do _not_ shake as he dips the end of the cigarette into the lighter flame. And if they do, then it’s _obviously_ because of the alcohol thrumming through his veins. Not any other reason.

Sam’s eyes snap to his. “I thought you quit that shit?”

“Bought them the other night for my little fuck around with Cas.” He exhales, enjoying the rush of nicotine. “To y’know, draw attention to my-“

“If the words ‘blow job lips’ come out of your mouth again Dean, I will bounce your face off the wall.”

Dean manages a little smirk. “Anyway, we’re gonna die tomorrow. What difference does a bit of lung cancer make?”

“Nice to see that you’re taking the situation seriously.”

Dean is about to reply with something witty – of course it would have been witty; he’s fucking _hilarious_ – when they hear footsteps echoing on the stone steps that lead up to the room where they’re currently arguing.

What is it with his dumbass brother and not locking doors? He sends Sam a frustrated look, which is echoed back at him, tenfold.

Oh yeah, Dean was the last person through the doors tonight.

In the few seconds it takes for the person to appear in the space at the top of the stairs, the air is crackling with nervous tension. Though in reality, it’s only going to be one of two people, and Dean’s not sure which one would be worse right now.

It’s Castiel, fully dressed - with that fucking horrible trench coat - and walking calmly towards the brothers like he hasn’t just condemned them to death with his ridiculously accurate fist. For fuck’s sake, he hadn’t even been looking at the guy when he KO’d him. Dean would admit – under serious duress – that it was kind of impressive. But also, completely debilitating, because the second that bastard threw the punch; he and Sammy were well and truly dead men walking.

Dean can’t help it, he has done everything to protect his brother; short of dying for him – which is gonna be happening sooner than he anticipated – so he completely loses it at the man who has seemingly done his damndest to fuck up Dean’s efforts.

“What the _fuck_ are you playing at Cas?”

Castiel remains silent, much to Dean’s chagrin. Dean stubs out the half-smoked cigarette in one of the ashtrays on the little table next to the couch, anticipating a fight, ‘cause right now he’s only one step away from cracking his knuckles and just launching himself at the asshole.

“It was an accident.” Cas shrugs coolly after a few minutes, expression completely indifferent.

“A fucking accident? Seems to happen a lot around you! Goddammit, this is all your fucking fault! Crowley’s gonna kill us all. You are aware of that, right? You might wanna hop on a plane back to the fucking Motherland right about now!”

“Dean-“ Sam warns, but Dean’s only just getting started.

“Jesus fucking Christ, I didn’t let you fuck me just for you to screw me over again tonight! Only not in the fun way!”

Castiel is staring at him incredulously. “You _let_ me?”

“Yes! Hello, my name’s Dean Winchester and I manipulate people to get what I fucking want! I will do anything to save my fucking stupid brother,” He points at said stupid brother who is looking at Dean with a mixture of mortification and concern, “and _nothing_ will stop that, not even some asshole Russian pretending to be a human!”

The last words he hears are a hushed “Dean, seriously, shut the fuck up,” from Sam, before Cas’s fist is in his face and he’s being slammed against the nearest wall, his head connecting sharply with the rough brickwork, pinned there by Castiel’s hands and hips. Dean tries to push him away, but the guy is just a determined barricade of angry Russian and muscle, and there’s no way he’s going anywhere.

“Cas, get off me you fucking psycho!”

Castiel doesn’t let up, just moves his face closer to Dean so that their noses are almost touching. His eyes are cold, venomous, and it serves as a good reminder that the man he’s dealing with is not a normal human being. Though, it does kind of make for a pretty seductive sight and if the bastard hadn’t just killed them all by not throwing Crowley’s fucking match, then he would probably be letting the Russian fuck him against the wall, but as it is – right now at least – his anger is outweighing his lust.

“I’m warning you Dean. I’ve been rather patient with you so far. But if you say one more goddamned word _, I will fucking **end** you._”

And goddamn if his dick doesn’t give an interested twitch.

It’s inappropriate on so many levels; Castiel is insane, there are definitely more pressing issues at hand than getting off, he’s pretty fucking drunk, his brother is right there… There’s plenty of excellent reasons to choose from.

It still doesn’t stop the reaction to Cas’s proximity though, and judging by the way Cas’s pupil is slowly swallowing the blue? Yeah, he’s totally feeling the same way. Which at least gives Dean a little bit of power in this situation.

Though, speaking of little brothers…

“Get off my brother,” Sam has fumbled a gun out of… somewhere (Why the fuck is Sam carrying a gun?) and the dumb, brave bastard is pointing it inches away from Cas’s face. He cocks it. “Now.”

“Sammy,” Dean grits his teeth when Castiel digs his fingernails into his wrists which are pinned at his sides, immobilising, and pressing hard on a pretty big kink of his. “It’s fine.” He manages a faintly reassuring smile. “I think Cas and I have some things to discuss.”

“Dean-”

Castiel doesn’t take his eyes off Dean. His voice is even and scarily calm, considering he’s at the business end of a firearm. “Sam I’d listen to your brother. I could have had that gun out of your hands in at least seven different ways by now, but out of respect, I haven’t. So please leave us alone.”

Sam gives Dean one last helpless, impatient glance, which Dean gives a tight nod to, and then he’s disappearing out of the VIP area, hasty footsteps on the stairs, shouting out behind himself, "Don't kill each other, 'cause I'm not clearing up the mess!"

Castiel’s grip on Dean’s wrists tighten to the point of pain, and it really isn’t helping with the inappropriate boner situation. “I am sick of your lack of respect.”

“Yeah?” Dean spits back. “Well I’m getting pretty sick of your general psychosis, but you don’t hear me banging on about it! I’ll ask you again, what the fuck were you playing at you stupid asshole?”

“I did this fight as a favour to you –“

“Yes, and as previously mentioned, you did the exact opposite of what you were meant to!”

Cas growls then, but Dean doesn’t care; alcohol, fear and lust combining into an unholy cocktail that sees him shouting abuse at a man who has put people in comas for a lot fucking less.

“I mean, technically you’ve screwed me three times now! That’s more repeat performances than anyone has ever gotten, congrats!”

“If you don’t shut the fuck up, I’ll make it four!” Castiel slams his fist into the wall next to Dean’s head. And as ridiculous a comeback as it is, Dean can’t help but wet his lips, watching as Castiel tracks the movement – and _really_ – that shouldn’t turn him on, but he’s already half-way hard; Cas’s forceful action just gives his libido a jump-start.

So Dean does what he does best, and with his now free hand, he reaches out, grabbing a fistful of Cas’s hair and crashes their mouths together in a clumsy, furious kiss that lacks any trace of finesse or skill. Castiel doesn’t protest, just lets out a small surprised noise, but within seconds, he’s relaxing into the kiss and then there are tongues and Dean’s mind whites out a little.

Then Cas rocks his hips forwards into Dean’s, so that he can feel the hard line of Cas’s erection, and that’s about all Dean can take. If he’s gonna die in less than 24 hours, he’s at least going to get a damned orgasm out of the man who’s almost entirely responsible for his downfall.

He smirks against Castiel’s mouth as he jams his hand down under the waistband of Cas’s sweatpants, pleasantly surprised to find no underwear to contend with, cupping over the smooth muscle of his ass and squeezing, before moving to his hard-on, wrapping his hand around the silky hard flesh.

Cas closes his eyes, swallowing hard. “Dean..”

Encouraged, Dean begins to jack him hard and fast. It’s sloppy, rough and fairly uncoordinated, but Cas seems to be enjoying it judging by his ragged moans and uneven breaths. And then finally, Castiel is reciprocating, frantically unzipping the fly on Dean’s jeans, popping the button and then pushing the clothing down around Dean’s thighs.

Once Cas takes Dean in hand and begins stroking him in a marginally more composed way, it doesn’t take long for either of them to reach climax; usually Dean would be embarrassed by his (lack of) stamina, but right now, with the feeling of Cas’s hand on his dick and the alcohol buzz he’s still riding, he couldn’t actually care less.

Cas exhales heavily as he comes, his head dropping to Dean’s collarbone, panting harshly against the material of his shirt, but Dean hardly notices, as his orgasm washes over him seconds later, making him virtually deaf and blind to everything else.

The whole thing is intense, stupid, and oh so fucking wonderful.

 

***

Dean and Cas have nearly finished another bottle of Jagermeister between them. It helps Dean to forget that at the moment, he’s essentially a dead man sitting in a pair of come-crusted underwear. Again, not his lowest point; that honour still goes to the grannies. Though it is a close one. His self-respect levels are around the same.

Apparently Castiel doesn’t drink Jager much because he’s already slumped to the floor, back against the sofa, leaning against Dean’s legs. Aren’t Russians all about the vodka? Surely Cas would have built up some tolerance to other spirits?

Though, maybe now that his defences are down for a change, Dean will get an honest answer out of him.

“Why didn't you throw the match Cas?”

There’s a slight hesitation there, as if he’s internally debating something. “Because I lost my concentration. By the time I realised what was happening, I’d already knocked The Golem out.”

“You lost your concentration?” Dean finds that hard to believe. Castiel Krushnic is not the kind of man who just gets distracted. Even when Sammy had held a gun to his head, he still hadn’t taken his attention off Dean.

He’d have to remember to have a word with Sammy about that.

“Yes.”

“Are you gonna tell me how? C’mon man, I’m gonna die tomorrow.” He wheedles playfully, even though the words taste like ash in his mouth. He quite likes living. Hedonism suits him. “You can tell me.”

Castiel hesitates again.

Dean leans over so that he can hear Cas when he says, voice low and quiet, “I saw you with Bela. It bothered me.”

There’s a pregnant pause as Dean’s booze-addled brain processes the information.

Wait. Fuckin’ what?

Castiel fucking Krushnic – underground bareknuckle boxing champion and all round Russian badass – has fucked them all over because of…

And _there_ it is.

“Jesus Christ, Cas! I’m gonna be eaten by pigs ‘cause you got _jealous_?”

Castiel’s awkward silence confirms it.

“You fucking psychopath.” Dean scrambles to his feet, shoving his index finger in an approximation of where he _thinks_ Cas’s face is; though there’s three of them at the moment. Like a hydra or some shit. “You’d better be prepared Krushnic, ‘cause I am gonna make it my personal fucking mission to haunt you to within an inch of your life.”

Castiel tilts his head and furrows his brow. It’s a little adorable, despite who he is and what he’s done.

Fucking Russian bastard with his blue eyes and tousled hair and nice dick.

“I’d be in the grave with you, Winchester. Kicking your ass right through to the afterlife.”

Dean pauses. Asshole has a point; maybe at one stage Crowley would have kept him alive because he was useful, but now? Dude has gone and signed his own death warrant. And for what?

For Dean, apparently.

God fucking dammit.

Dean stands gawkily, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, rage rapidly dissipating when he realises that if he hadn’t decided to sleep with the dude in the first place that this probably wouldn’t have happened. If Gordon hadn’t been such a massive fucking prick then this probably wouldn’t have happened. If Crowley wasn’t such a cunt then this _definitely_ wouldn’t have happened.

Castiel is just the latest one to fuck up in a long line of fuck ups.

However, that doesn’t mean that Castiel doesn’t owe him more than just a decent handjob. “Hey, Cas?”

“Yes?”

“What does your tattoo mean?”

Dean swears that he sees a small smile on the Russian’s lips, replaced very quickly by his default setting of cool indifference.

“What’s in it for me if I tell you?”

Dean splutters. Really?

“Really Cas? We’re gonna die, and you’re holding out on me?”

“Listen Dean.” He slowly clambers to his feet, bracing his weight against the couch. It’s quite amusing watching the usually-so-graceful-and-composed Cas struggle, and then Dean remembers that he’s not really in any position to judge, as it took him at least four tries to get upright moments ago. ”Do you _really_ think that I’m going to allow Crowley to kill us? Do you honestly believe that I haven’t already implemented a few plans of protection?”

Dean is speechless. It genuinely hadn’t occurred to him.

Castiel strides unsteadily across to him. “If you hadn’t been such a prick when I first came in, I could have calmly told you all about it.”

“Tell me now, Cas.”

“Well, I –“

There’s a loud shout, then rapid, _multiple_ footsteps on the stairs and – with his severely dulled senses – Dean has no time to react, before Sam is virtually thrown at him by one of Crowley’s thugs who then steps aside, allowing for the man himself to make an appearance.

“Hello boys. Hope I’m not interrupting.”


	8. Chapter Seven - Personified in this case, by an 'orrible cunt: Me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for character death and mentions of drug abuse and lots of other depressing stuff.
> 
> This chapter goes a little more in depth into both Cas and Dean's histories, so it's not light-hearted at all.
> 
> Sorry!
> 
> And again, thank you, you beautiful people for your lovely comments.

Really, Crowley couldn’t have timed it worse. Or better depending on who was asked.

For Castiel, however – who is only half sure that Dean hadn’t actually poisoned him with the thick, syrupy cough medicine known as Jagermeister – the timing is abysmal.

Between the three of them, they probably could have taken on Crowley and his overly-butch bodyguards, but with two thirds of them… _incapacitated_ , it would all be up to Sam. The only one who isn’t much of a fighter.

“Good to see that the gang’s all here.” Crowley is quite a thickset man, who looks too rough and ready to be anything other than a market trader and it leaves Castiel wondering why he’s so feared. He’s just a middle-aged man in a black coat with a couple of standard henchmen. Nothing particularly intimidating really.

He risks a glance at Dean, whose green eyes sparkle with defiance, despite the situation, and Castiel feels just a little proud of the stupid loud-mouth for his incessant bravery no matter what the circumstances.

With Balthazar in the process of getting the necessary information, all they need to do is stall for time. Unfortunately, because of Dean’s pig-headed, drunken, self-righteous rant earlier, neither he nor his brother are privy to this information, so Castiel needs to lead the proceedings, before Dean undoubtedly says something to make the situation worse.

“We were discussing how to make it up to you.”

Crowley’s eyes are virtually black when they flick across to Castiel. He doesn’t blink; he’d faced scarier men than Crowley before he was eighteen. This cockney prick is nothing special.

“Oh? And please do tell me how you plan on ‘making it up to me’ you fucking prat?”

Castiel balks. Maybe Dean can get away with talking to him like that because of… reasons, which Castiel would really rather not think about right now, but that does not allow this glorified barrow boy to talk to him like a dickhead.

However, he reins it in. He has to play nice. “I’ll do another fight.”

Crowley laughs and it sounds like nails on sandpaper, gritty and coarse. “You think I want you after last time? You’ll probably just screw me again. Dirty Cossack.”

Castiel barely refrains from rolling his eyes. The epithets never get any more original.

“Last time was an error on my part. These two,” He gestures to Dean and Sam without looking away from Crowley, “are just as upset that I let them down as you are.”

Crowley looks at the brothers briefly, before returning his glare to Castiel. He makes a small grunt of assent. “Go on.”

“Now, I know that you didn’t get to where you are by allowing people second chances, and neither did I, but on this occasion I am requesting it.” Feeding his ego should help grease the wheels a little bit; the man clearly thinks too highly of himself.

“You lost me over one hundred grand tonight, boy.”

Castiel ignores the use of the word ‘boy’ and instead chooses to press on; he hates this whole stupid dance-with-the-Devil bullshit, but needs must.

“I’ll get you that back. And more.”

“By doing another fight?”

“Yes.”

“How do I know that you won’t pull the same trick twice?”

“Because I am as good as my word.” Castiel replies with what he hopes comes across as complete honesty. It’s far from it, but he’s counting on his stoic demeanour working in his favour.

Crowley seems to consider this as he looks at Castiel contemplatively. “Alright then. Krushnic,” Cas juts his chin out in a defiant manner, expecting Crowley’s rebuke. “One last fucking chance. Don’t you dare screw this up. Or there will be serious repercussions. Not just for you three, but for anyone who’s in your orbit. Are we clear?”

That was far too simple. It makes Castiel feel slightly uneasy; there’s no way that the man would give in that quickly, is there?

Still, they just need time, so hopefully they’ll never find out about what Crowley is potentially planning. “Yes.”

“Excellent.”

 

***

 

Dean doesn’t remember his dreams anymore. Hasn’t done since he was eleven, but he’s pretty sure that the one he’s torn out of by a shrill ringing sound is a pretty good one. At least judging by the impressive boner he’s sporting.

He flails and fumbles for his phone, blurrily swiping his thumb across the screen to answer.

“Uh?”

“Dean.” It’s Cas, and he sounds more frantic and urgent than he’s ever heard him, even though his tone has hardly wavered. For Castiel it’s like a step away from full-blown panic.

“Cas,” He smooths a hand over his face, straining to look at the clock radio on the nightstand. It’s almost four in the morning. They left each other only about two hours ago. Surely the crazy sonofabitch can’t be missing him that much already. “What is it?”

“It’s Singer's. That cunt Crowley has burned it to the fucking ground.” It’s spoken with the air of dignity that he’s come to expect from the Russian, but he can tell that Castiel is barely holding on to his anger right now.

It takes a second for the words to percolate through to Dean’s brain. “Fuck!” He sits up in bed, hastily jumping out and scrabbling around for pants.

“It’s already gone Dean, there’s no point in you coming out. The place is ash. Must have been some kind of accelerant inside the building. Fire Brigade couldn’t do anything about it.”

Bobby lives in an apartment above the gym.

“What about Bobby? Please tell me he’s out there with you?”

The line goes silent for a moment. “Bobby was inside.”

“Are you sure?”

Another pause. “Yes. Someone I know escorted him home earlier tonight after the match whilst I went to see you.”

“Was your friend in there too?”

“No. Balthazar had already long since gone home.”

“Jesus fucking Christ Cas.”

“I know.” Castiel sighs and Dean imagines him standing outside the still-smouldering gym in that stupid coat thinking that it’s his fault or some shit. Dean wrote the book on self-loathing. He knows a fellow self-flagellator when he sees one.

“Come over.” If asked, he’d never be able to explain why he says it. Right now it just seems like they both could do with somebody and for some reason, Cas is the only person he wants. Sammy can’t see him upset; it’s like Rule Number One that Dean laid down from the very beginning. Even if they both know that it’s a stupid rule.

“Okay.”

Dean breathes a sigh of relief; no stupid fights or crazy arguments, just easy, quick acquiescence.

He reels off his address and then ends the call with shaking fingers.

Instantly, his phone begins to ring again.

“Your lot defended an entire front against the Nazis in World War 2 and you’re telling me that you’re already struggling with directions?“

The voice that answers is like ice water to Dean’s face. Cold, brutal and something that takes your breath away for the wrong reasons. “Wrong person.”

“Crowley.”

“Correct. Now, listen to me very fucking carefully, Winchester. Don’t let that Russian prick fuck up this time. Now you know that I’m not fucking about, being as apparently it wasn’t clear the first couple of times.”

Dean doesn’t even have anything to say to that. The rage is burning white hot. He’s gotta calm the fuck down otherwise he’s gonna say something that he’ll regret. He was happy letting Cas take the meeting earlier, because he seemed to have a plan, but now he could tell Crowley to go fuck himself quite happily.

He doesn’t though.

“Message received loud and clear.”

“Good boy.” Then the line goes dead.

 

***

 

The three of them are sitting at the bar at Purgatory. Dean and Sam had made the decision to close the place down the night following Bobby’s death as a mark of respect for him. It’s full of guys who frequented Bobby’s gym, or people who just generally liked the man; he was never short of friends, being the good human being that he was.

_Was._

That one word stings far more than it should. Words are things that always used to hurt Castiel far more than any physical blow. Especially when it involves someone who meant something to him.

“You okay man?” Dean suddenly leans into his space and Castiel blinks, realising that it’s just him and Dean at the bar now; Sam having scuttled off somewhere.

Balthazar is milling around the club too, building new contacts and sharing consolatory words with the hundred or so men and women seated all over the place, but it isn’t the Brit that Castiel finds himself gravitating towards; it’s Dean.

Dean, who cleaned him up when he arrived at the other man’s apartment in the early hours of the morning, covered in ash and not entirely coherent. Dean, who he slept solidly next to without any kind of sexual connotations, just a gruff, ‘Get some sleep Cas.’ Dean, who he spent most of the day with, keeping each other company and regaling one another with anecdotes about Bobby and his general crabbiness.

For someone so used to spending the bulk of his time on his own, Castiel had settled into it remarkably easily. But then, now that he’s embracing Dean and what he represents, rather than trying to fight him – literally and figuratively – a lot of things are so much easier.

Being around Dean is like a balm, soothing away the cracks until Castiel almost feels new again.

He can’t remember the last time he allowed himself to experience that.

 “I’m fine.” They both know that he’s not; neither of them are, not really, but Dean – unlike Balthazar – doesn’t comment. Castiel is grateful.

A change of subject is needed.

“What made you choose England?”

Dean throws him a lop-sided smile from behind the beer bottle raised to his lips. “Sammy always wanted to come here.” He swallows a mouthful of the liquid, undulating throat catching and holding Castiel’s attention for longer than it probably should.

Dean adopts a South London accent with a big grin. “Y’know become a cock-er-nee gangster. Apples an’ pears, the ole’ dog an’ bone.”

Castiel shakes his head, but he can’t help his small smile.

Dean pauses for a second, his eyes flicking to Castiel’s, “Man, it was fuckin’ hard though. Y’know. Assimilating. And let’s not forget that the roads here are so tiny; I had to leave my baby behind.”

Castiel frowns. Obviously Dean can’t mean he has a child. A motorbike? Car?

“It’s my car.” Dean clarifies, apparently noticing the confused look on Castiel’s face. “ _Was_ my car. Well, not like I even had it for that long. It used to belong to my old man. Kept it in storage whilst I was inside. Had my eye on it since I was about seven.”

Again, it’s odd that Dean would keep something of his father’s. Same with the Army kit and gun.

“Why did you bother keeping it? You hated the man, right?”

Dean sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face. “It’s more complicated than that.”

“Tell me.” Suddenly Castiel wants to know absolutely everything. He wants to know what wasn’t in that stupid file; so far his assumptions based off of it have been wrong more often than they’ve been right anyway.

“Only if you tell me what the deal with your tattoo is.”

Castiel hesitates. He’s never told another living soul.

“Fine.”

“The official reason is that I saw Dad beating Sammy and lost my shit. In reality, I came home from school and Sam was pointing the gun at Dad’s chest. He shot him. I wasn’t gonna let Sammy get put away.”

“But surely, he’d have been too young to have been tried?”

“Man, I was eleven; I didn’t know shit about the law. And as it goes, Sammy’s shot was crap; he hadn’t been brought up handling firearms like me, so he hadn’t been prepared for the recoil. Barely grazed our dad. So within minutes the old man was getting up again, shouting about how he was gonna kill Sam and I just –“

Dean suddenly looks at a loss and Castiel feels a twinge of sympathy.

“I yanked the gun out of Sammy’s hands and shot John dead. We called the cops and told them our little story. It wasn’t too far from the truth and I was sent away for manslaughter and served time during the period in my life when I should have been chasing girls and worrying about homework.” His laugh is bitter and so un-Dean-like that it makes Castiel cringe a little. “If I had to do it all over again to keep Sammy safe though, I fuckin’ would.” He looks over to where Sam has a lapful of a pretty blonde with wavy hair and a beautiful smile. “In a heartbeat.”

That kind of dedication to a sibling is something that Castiel can appreciate so completely that he’s already deconstructing the separating wall in his mind between the every day working space and the memories; allowing himself to remember Anna’s perfume, and the way she smiled that time he came home with a bag of gummi worms when she’d been off school sick. Things that had seemed too painful to remember, so had been partitioned off.

There’s a small lull in the conversation as Castiel figures out how to tell him about his past, when Dean adds quietly. “I guess I kept some of John’s shit because I remember what he was like before Mom died. It was a shame that it ended the way it did with him, y’know? A real waste of what was once a good man.” He sounds slightly guilty; like loving his dad, despite what he was, is an admission of weakness.

Castiel nods. For once, he’s not just playing at understanding emotions like an autistic kid desperate to fit in; he really _gets_ what Dean is saying.

He takes a deep breath. “My turn, right?” At Dean’s nod and tentative smile, he starts, “My sister’s name was Anna. She was two years younger than me. When we were children, I used to read Alice’s Adventures In Wonderland to her.” He knows that he sounds detached from the words; distanced. “Her favourite part was where Alice meets the Cheshire Cat. She used to always quote the cat: _‘We’re all mad here. I’m mad, you’re mad.’_ And I’d always play along, replying with: _’How do you know I’m mad?’_ We’d essentially recite the whole interaction word for word on a regular basis.”

It’s a fond memory. Like so many of them with Anna are. His sister was beautiful. So was his mother, but he and Anna were inseparable; always close since they were tiny. Even from a young age she’d always gotten a lot of attention from men with her beautiful red hair and flawless pale skin, but he’d made a point of scaring them off.

Except the one that wasn’t afraid of a scrawny 17-year-old.

He clears his throat when Dean hands him another beer, flicking the lids off with a bottle opener on his key ring.

“So what happened to her?” He asks softly.

Castiel swallows a big mouthful, really needing more than Dutch courage for this, but pressing on anyway. “When she was about fifteen, she got involved with a guy twice her age, who as it turns out was not a nice man.”

He can tell by the expression on Dean’s face that he already has an idea where the story is going.

“He got her hooked on drugs. Mainly heroin I think.” He swallows hard, remembering how she looked in hospital after she’d OD’d once. _‘Never again, Castiel, I promise’_. But of course she’d gone running back to him.

He never hated her for it though, like she sometimes asked him if he did. He didn’t have first-hand experience himself, but he knew what kind of power the drugs had over his sister. The power that that bastard had over her, and by proxy, him.

“Things got bad. They broke up. He demanded payment for all of the drugs she’d had from him over the months. Debts that racked up into the tens of thousands. We didn’t have that kind of money. We were a single income household.”

He sucks in a deep breath. “He said that for every week she didn’t pay up, he’d take one of her fingers.”

Dean raises his eyebrows, eyes wide and genuinely shocked. “Jesus fucking Christ, Cas.”

Castiel shakes his head sadly. “I know. So I offered to take over the debt. He agreed. Anyway, a week later I hadn’t managed to find all of the money; I got some by selling things, borrowing cash from friends that kind of thing. I sold my car.” He smiles wistfully. “I was prepared for him to take a finger, because I hadn’t met the amount, but he went crazy. He shot my mom dead in our kitchen and took my sister.”

He takes another drink, struggling against the recollection of finding out what copious amounts of blood actually smelled like for the first time; it was nothing like when he got a cut, so much more rich and potent. It would forever be engraved into his sense memory.

“He told me that if I phoned the police that he’d kill Anna. I did everything I could to find the money, but I was a 17-year-old with no job and living in a poor Russian-American community. He kept dangling her life above my head, telling me that if I didn’t come up with the money that he would kill her. It went on for weeks. I dropped out of school, just focusing on doing whatever I could to find the money. He added interest to it every day too. So as soon as I thought that I’d found enough, he’d add more. It was crazy.

Then I finally had it all. Including the interest. I think it was about five weeks after he first took her. I knocked on the door with a bag full of money and when he answered I saw her on the sofa, naked and unconscious. She was pale and clammy – drugged up – but just about alive. I begged and pleaded with him to let me take her to a hospital, but he just laughed as one of his friends counted the money. They held a gun to my head and told me that if I moved a muscle that they’d kill the both of us. I didn’t care about me, I told them to let Anna go, kill me instead, but they wouldn’t have it.”

Castiel screws his eyes shut. He can’t look at Dean when he tells him the next part; can’t take the pitying look that will probably be in his jade eyes.

"It was two dollars short. They shot her in the head right there and then. I had a couple of crumpled dollar bills in my pocket.”

“Jesus _fuck_ , Cas.” Castiel opens his eyes again. Dean doesn’t look like he pities him; he looks angry; disgusted even.

“I managed to get out alive. Unfortunately by the time I went back a few hours later with a gun, planning on retribution, they’d already disappeared. I tracked all four of them down over the next few years, killing the last one just before my twentieth birthday and it wasn’t nearly as cathartic as I’d hoped it would have been. I just felt empty. So I decided to get the fuck out of Massachusetts.”

There’s a small pause.

“Why England though?”

Castiel gives Dean a wry smile. “Lewis Carroll was English?” At Dean’s chuckle he adds, “It seemed like a good idea at the time.”

Another pause. This time longer.

“Cas?”

“Yes?”

“Thanks for telling me.”

He shrugs, as if it isn’t a big thing. “You’re the first person I’ve felt like I can tell.”

“C’mere.” Dean stands up off the barstool, holding his arms out. And Castiel goes in for the hug, because why not? He’s just told Dean everything; it’s not like he has anywhere to hide from him anymore. It’s not like he even _wants_ to hide. Again, they’re even; equal. Neither of them have power here. They’ve exchanged information about their pasts that is limited knowledge. It doesn’t get much more intimate than that.

He and Dean stay wrapped around each other; neither quite ready to let go, as Balthazar’s voice splits through the noisy chattering in the room.

“Come on ladies and gents; raise your glasses for Bobby Singer. Cantankerous as fuck, but a damn fine example of a human being.”

A chorus of clinks echoes around the room. “To Bobby!”

Castiel looks to Dean, who smiles warmly at him. “To Bobby,” He murmurs, pressing his lips to Cas’s in a sweet, chaste kiss. “To Sammy,” another kiss, “and to Anna.” He raises his beer, and Castiel mirrors the action.

And as they bring their bottles together in a toast, Castiel realises that this is it.

This is _home_.


	9. Chapter Eight - They could charm the paint off walls, these fellas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you that have seen RocknRolla, you'll probably recognise the similarities between Dick Roman and Lenny Cole. 
> 
> This is my expansion on some background of the scene in Snatch after the pikey loses the first time, when Bricktop is stopped by someone who he says he'll make it up to, showing that maybe there are people that someone as horrible as Bricktop is actually indebted to in some way.
> 
> Thank you for all your support guys. I squee every time I read a nice comment!

Apparently Dean and Castiel have some unspoken agreement that they’re not going to discuss their little chick flick moment that they’d indulged in last night. Which is totally fine by Dean; there’s no need to mention it, something between them has shifted and the only people in the world who need to know how or why, already do.

Though of course, Sam has to get involved.

“So are you and Castiel like a thing now?” He asks, nursing a disgustingly black coffee in a Styrofoam cup. They’re sitting in a stolen car; a lime green Ford monstrosity and Dean is dealing with a serious hangover from the night before.

It’s becoming a running theme. The hangover, not stealing ugly cars.

“Sammy, it is way too earlier for this bullshit.”

His brother gives a long-suffering, burning-martyr sigh. “Fine. But you do realise that you and he becoming a,” he waves his hand, trying to find the right words without getting a punch to the jaw, “ _thing_ would be pretty disastrous, right? The dude’s crazy, so are you. It’d be like if Hannibal Lector and Norman Bates decided to join forces to make a tag-team.”

Dean moves in his seat, so he can give Sam the full-force of his ‘Really Sam?’ glare. After a moment, his brother looks away, choosing to stare out of the window, biting his lip.

“Which one am I then Sammy? The guy who eats people or the guy who dresses in women’s clothing? Careful how you answer, ‘cause Cas is the other one and I _will_ tell him.”

Sam chokes out a laugh. “Obviously you’re Norman.”

“Dammit. Hannibal is so much cooler.”

Reluctantly, he has to admit that Cas is kinda cool too; especially right now, as he comes striding out of the warehouse, dressed all in black; smart trousers, and a plain waistcoat over a shirt with the first couple of buttons at the collar undone, and sleeves rolled up to his elbows exposing his forearms and showing off one of his tattoos.

 Dean never thought he’d go in for the whole debonair thing, but he’d defy anyone interested in dudes to think that Cas was anything other than completely fuckable, at _any_ time, but specifically at the moment. Dude looks like Russian Mafia or some shit.

And that should not turn him on. Especially now that he knows Cas has actually killed people.

“Stop it.”

“What?” Dean tries for innocence, but his face ends up breaking into a grin.

“You and your,” he gestures at Dean’s crotch and adopts what Dean likes to call his sassy churchgoer voice, “dirty, sinful urges.”

Dean throws his head back and full-on laughs, and after a few moments, Sam joins in, until they’re both cackling away like the time Sammy came to visit him in Juvie and they discovered that ‘phallus’ was another word for penis. For quite some time after that, a big chunk of their insults incorporated the word.

Cas opens the door and slides into the back seat. “I thought I said inconspicuous? I fail to see the correlation between bright green and stealth.”

Dean is still sniggering like he’s been caught red-handed putting itching powder in his brother’s boxers again (totally happened, it was one of Sam’s 24th birthday presents) and Cas looking at him like a stern teacher really isn’t helping the issue.

“Sorry sir, won’t ‘appen again sir.”

That starts them off again.

Castiel sends him an impatient, ‘shut the fuck up’ look, but it eventually cracks into a small smile. “Fuck you, Winchester.”

“Later.”

He gets an eye-roll for that one, but he can tell that Cas is still amused, despite his best efforts to conceal any human emotion like he seems to do automatically, even though Dean has seen past the defences.

He gets it. Old habits and all that.

“Okay,” Castiel pulls the suspiciously thin-looking brown A4 envelope onto his lap and begins tugging out the contents, which turns out to be… a single sheet of paper.

What? Dean got up at stupid o’clock for this?

“So what’s this plan of yours Castiel?” Sammy sounds genuinely curious as he looks at him in the rear-view mirror, which has fuzzy dice attached.

Fuzzy dice. Is this what his life has come to?

Castiel’s eyes scan the document rapidly, and he doesn’t look up when he replies, “Crowley doesn’t control as much as he’d have us believing he does. He has a benefactor.”

Which doesn’t actually answer the question at all, but it does raise others.

Dean remembers back to the day at the pig farm – repress the shudder, repress, repress – and the flash of hope behind Crowley’s eyes when they’d said that they could get him a better fight. He’d thought back then that somebody else was pulling the strings behind the scenes.

Dean scratches lazily at his neck, stubble rough under his blunt fingernails. “Yeah. I got the impression that he was answering to someone else.”

“According to this, the man’s name is Dick Roman.”

Both brothers sit up straighter in their seats, narrowly missing banging their heads together as they both twist around to face Castiel properly.

“ _The_ Dick Roman?” Sam clarifies.

Castiel does look up then, glancing between the two of them. “Should I know who he is?”

“Yeah.” Dean grimaces. “He’s like the guardian angel of the underworld. He has a knack for reducing people’s prison sentences. For the right price of course.”

“If you pay him enough, the prosecution will _lose_ the paperwork magically. Witnesses will _disappear_.” Sam adds. “But that costs hundreds of thousands. That’s not where his specialty lies though. It’s in property development. He’ll buy some shitty old warehouse for a million and then sell it on a couple of years later for five million. He has half of the city in his pocket. Man has real influence.”

Castiel looks unimpressed. “He’s just a man though. And every man has a weakness.” He moves his attention back to the piece of paper, scrutinising for some detail on how to bring the most powerful man in London down. It’s naïve, but also kinda badass.

Dean sighs. “He owns a club near Covent Garden called Levi’s, if that helps any.”

“Covent Garden?” Castiel wrinkles his nose in distaste.

“Yeah I know.” Dean laughs; the place is all hipsters these days. “Though a friend of mine is on the doors there most nights, we could probably ask him to find out when/if Dick is there in the next few days.”

“I wasn’t aware you had friends, Dean.” It’s spoken with his usual coolness, his tone casual, but Dean can sense the slightly rough edge.

Possessive bastard.

“Benny.” Dean says, knowingly poking the bear. He did, after all, make it his personal mission to fuck with Cas whenever possible, “One night stand that turned into friendship.”

“I like Benny.” Sam says innocently, oblivious to Cas’s mile-wide jealous streak.

“Yeah,” Dean smirks. “I’ve still got his phone number somewhere. I’ll give him a call.”

“That would be useful.” Castiel’s voice sounds strained.

“How’d you know all this anyways Cas?” Sam asks as Dean turns the key in the ignition, about ready to get the fuck out of this random wasteland, that Castiel had told them to meet him at with an unremarkable stolen vehicle at six AM. For once, it hadn’t been Dean who had disobeyed orders; he’d left his brother in charge of acquiring the car.

“I have my ways.”

Sneaky fuckin’ Russian.

“So, what now Xenia?” Dean asks, pulling out of the small dirt-road just outside of Woolwich and beginning the not-far-but-super-frustrating-fuck-London-traffic-fuck-fuck-fuck journey back towards Purgatory.

Castiel quirks his head, his face creased in confusion. ‘Cause of _course_ Cas has never seen a Bond film. One day he’s gonna sit the Russian down and make him watch Star Wars (‘cause really, what kind of person hasn’t seen the Wars), Princess Bride (it should be law to see that movie) and now apparently the Bond films too.

“I don’t understand that reference Dean.”

 

***

 

Dean is too old for this shit. Sure he drinks himself stupid most nights, but going ‘clubbing’ is something that he’d tired of by his second week of freedom. The night air is too cold for them to be dressed the way they are; Cas still in his mafia clothes from earlier, Dean himself is just in a long-sleeved dark green Henley and jeans. It’s the most he’s tarted himself up in years.

Benny had reliably informed Dean over the phone – after some serious flirting, which had made Cas leave the room in a huff –  that Roman was actually spending time at Levi’s for the next few nights whilst they went through their accounts for the taxman.

Dean is half-tempted to ask the dude to help him out with his own.

Sammy is back at Purgatory finalising the rest of the plans with Balthazar, Ash and the others. It’s looking pretty likely that they’re gonna pull this crazy idea of Cas’s off. Crowley won’t know what’s fucking hit him. Well. Hopefully he won’t have time to.

He and Cas stride right up to the front door, where the big guy with the lilting Louisiana accent is checking ID’s of two girls who almost certainly aren’t old enough to be going into the club, but he waves them in any way.

His eyes visibly light up when he catches sight of Dean, who can _feel_ Cas bristling beside him.

“Hello brother,” He envelops Dean in a big bone-crushing hug that may have actually broken a couple of ribs.

“Hey Benny,” He smiles genuinely. Dude is a bear in every sense of the world; cuddly-looking, but terrifying in the right setting.

“And who’s this?” He steps away, releasing Dean, allowing him to breathe again.

“This is my psychotic girlfriend. Like Glen Close in Fatal Attraction, but better looking and even more unhinged.” If Benny has no idea who Cas is then Dean isn’t gonna enlighten him. Also – and he’d deny it forever – but it gives Castiel the opportunity to expand on the statement, let Benny know that Dean is off-limits.

It’s purely to keep Cas happy of course.

Castiel looks at Dean sceptically, eyebrow arched. “Last time I checked, you were the one taking it up the ass. Doesn’t that make you the girl? Isn’t that how this works?”

Apparently Castiel is grabbing that opportunity with both hands.

“You have more of a problem with me calling you a bitch, than you do with me calling you a psychopath? Dude, you have issues.”

Cas stares at Dean as if he’s just crawled out of the sewers. “I pummel people into a bloody mess with my fists for a living. I’d say that I’m way past the point of no return with issues. You should know that better than anyone.”

“Hmm,” Dean nods to himself at Castiel’s ridiculous posturing. The only way he could have made it clearer was to screw Dean in front of the whole line of people queuing up against the wall of the building, whilst telling poor Benny over and over that he’s the hardest motherfucker to come out of London’s underground since the Krays. Dean turns to Benny and shrugs apologetically. “I wasn’t kidding about the psychotic bit.”

Benny watches the entire interaction with barely disguised interest. “Yeahuh.” He turns to Castiel. “So are you and my buddy Dean here a thing?”

What is it with people calling them a ‘thing’?

“He’s the Hannibal to my Norman.” Dean grins, ignoring Cas’s questioning glance – he’ll explain later – but he doesn't fail to notice Benny’s fleeting look of regret, before his professional game face is back on.

Huh. He never knew that Benny felt that way about him. But then, would it have changed anything if he did? Benny was a decent guy and a loyal friend, but he wasn’t someone he ever saw as more-than-one-fuck-worthy.

Then again, _nobody_ had ever been more-than-one-fuck-worthy.

Until recently.

Turns out, all he apparently ever needed was his very own Hannibal-bunny-boiler-Mafioso.

“Okay gentlemen. Roman’s office is on the second floor. If you go through the black door to the left of the bar, then follow the corridor up to the stairs. There’ll be a couple of heavies, so watch yourselves.”

“We’ll be fine,” Castiel flashes a quick, utterly fake smile at Benny, and Dean is seriously surprised that he doesn’t mark his territory right there. Surprised, but eternally thankful. He's never been into watersports. “Thank you Benny.”

Castiel pushes Dean in his lower back, indicating that he should go first. “Move it, Winchester.” Dean complies just to keep the peace; they both need to be fully focused tonight and creating any kind of disparity between them will not be constructive.

Inside, the place is heaving; packed full of sweaty bodies and Dean smirks as he makes a point of brushing his lips over the shell of Cas’s ear so that he can be heard over the pulse of the music, “Wanna dance, Krushnic? You may be able to fight, but can you move?”

Castiel pulls back enough to show that he’s mildly amused. “I can’t help but notice that you always play the flirting card, Dean.”

Dean shrugs and gives Cas a half smile. “My whole deck is that card.”

“You’re forgetting the ace up your sleeve.” Cas says candidly, and for once, Dean flounders, no witty rejoinder appearing within grasping range. “Come on. We need to sort this out with Mr Roman as soon as possible.”

  


***

  


The corridor is suspiciously quiet, which should really be their first clue that something isn’t quite right.

If something seems too good to be true, in Castiel’s experience, it _always_ is. He exchanges a knowing glance with Dean, who is apparently thinking the same thing. Castiel goes first down the narrow space, allowing Dean to keep watch for any staff coming in through the door next to the bar.

He notices a camera along the wall of the corridor.

“He must know we’re here by now.” Castiel mutters quietly, nodding his head in the direction of the camera.

“Well, maybe he knows who we are? Figures that we’re here to talk?”

Just then, the sounds of heavy footsteps echo on the stairs about teen feet around the corner.

“Apparently not.”

The first man is bigger than Castiel, but about the same size as Dean and he’s easy enough to take on; Dean throws the first punch into the man’s solar plexus, Castiel adds in one of his right hooks. It’s a combination that doesn’t fail them, even as more henchmen appear one-by-one like in a ridiculous action movie where the bad guys seem like they’re lining up to get their asses kicked.

It’s only when there are five unconscious men scattered down the corridor that a real challenge presents itself.

He’s no bigger than Castiel; in fact he’s maybe a couple of inches shorter and a good forty pounds lighter, but he’s quick. Almost too quick for Dean who gets a swift punch to the clavicle, before he gets a chance to respond, fighting dirty and bring his knee up to the guy’s groin. The man blocks, but by then Castiel is behind the henchman and punches him in the kidneys, weakening him enough for Dean to head-butt him and then he’s spread out on the floor, still conscious but with a broken nose.

“You’re good.” Dean says as they both stare down at the guy, whose eyes  nervously dart between the two of them.

“We’re better though.” Castiel brings his fist down to the man’s forehead, where he knows the trigeminal nerve to be, and catches it just right, knocking him unconscious.

He looks back at Dean who is wincing a bit. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” Dean hisses through clenched teeth. “Pretty sure it’s not broken, but it’s gonna bruise like a motherfucker.”

Castiel fights the urge to go over and check. Dean is more than capable of looking after himself.

“Come on, let’s go.”

Dean trails after him, up the stairs, until they reach the top and follow another corridor for a few paces.

The double doors that lead into the decent-sized room with wood paneling and far too much pretension, are already open when they get there and a man –Dick Roman, Castiel presumes – is sitting calmly at his desk, oily smile in place and striped three-piece suit combining to make him look like every politician that Castiel has ever seen.

“Good evening gentleman. Quite an impressive display back there. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

***

 

The office is actually quite modest compared to the image Dean had in his head. However, it does have the stereotypical pompous painting behind the oversized rectangular desk where Dick Roman is currently seated, looking vaguely entertained by their presence.

“We’re here to discuss a business proposition.” Castiel says in that stupidly calm voice of his and Dean is so fucking happy that they agreed that he would do most of the talking for this meeting, because he’s pretty sure that he’d be stumbling over words and generally not doing their cause any good.

Cas is eloquent and put-together and his ass in those trousers is a miracle of a God that Dean doesn’t even believe in. He might have to start though, ‘cause _damn_.

“Oh?” Dick Roman may sound surprised, but he doesn’t look it. “Pray, do tell.” He steeples his fingers together with his elbows on the desk.

“You are aware of a Fergus Crowley?”

His fake smile drops instantly. It’s comforting to see that Crowley has that effect on pretty much everybody right up the chain of command.

“Yes. Unfortunately. He’s quite necessary. A steady source of income for me.”

“What if he wasn’t?” Dean asks, and Roman’s eyes flick across to him, appraising, but still faintly amused. “I mean. What if you had a replacement? Someone who could make you more money than Crowley, and was more pleasant to deal with?”

Dick is up and out of his chair in an instant. Dean tries his damnedest not to take a step back on instinct. Crowley is concerning enough, but this guy is another fucking league entirely; he could wipe them both out without breaking a sweat.  He sits on the front of his desk, hands raised in their direction. “Go on, I’m all ears.”

He and Cas exchange glances. “Okay well,” He looks back to Roman, “my name’s Castiel Krushnic and this is Dean Winchester –“

“I know who you both are. As soon as I caught your faces on the CCTV, I pulled your files up. You’re a boxer and your little companion here has a few businesses. Some legal, some not. Get to the point. I’m busy with working out how to avoid paying taxes at the moment.” He sighs deeply, “It gets harder every year.”

Dean refrains from asking him how the guy does it. _So_ not the time.

Twenty minutes later sees them having explained their plan in glorious detail. However, it all hinges on them convincing Roman to back them over Crowley. If he says no, well then they’re all fucked. If he decides to go to Crowley with it and tell him what they’re planning, then they’re all fucked. Really, the only way they’re getting out of this on top is if he says –

“Okay.”

Dean blinks stupidly, whilst Cas seems to flounder for an instant. “Okay?”

“Yes.” Dick confirms with another flash of teeth. “I think we could be business partners. You two are much more amiable than Crowley any way.”

It’s not like it’s much of a compliment. A hornet’s nest is nicer to be around than Crowley, but Dean smiles graciously like he’s at a debutante ball, because that’s how the game is played. He draws the line at curtseying though.

“Just don’t let me down gentlemen. And if for some reason, you do manage to fuck it up, this never comes back to me. Do we understand each other?”

“Yes.”

A couple of handshakes and it’s done, and they’re numbly walking down the stairs, stepping over the still-unconscious henchmen, and back onto the dance floor – which has somehow got even more crammed full in the half an hour or so that they were dealing with Dick – dazed, drained, but victorious.

Dean leans in close to Castiel, bumping their shoulders together. “Fancy that dance now?”


	10. Chapter Nine - A Russian reaction is quite a fucking thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so I am so sorry that I haven't updated in ages. Some really bad RL shit came up and it's taken up way too much of my time. Sorry to have kept you guys waiting!
> 
> Warning for character death.

The crowd tonight at Crowley’s place is huge. They had guessed that it would be, but even so, Dean is pretty daunted as he looks up through the mass of bodies milling around, taking seats, posh wine glasses in the hands of women who would look more at home watching an opera rather than a blood sport.

Maybe he, Cas and the others are fucked up for fighting, but everyone in this life has a reason why they chose it; usually a good one.

It’s the people who willingly watch it that Dean sometimes has trouble figuring out.

He agreed to be Castiel’s coach under the guise of whispering words of wisdom – which they both know Dean isn’t actually capable of – to Cas between rounds, but in reality, Dean has been tasked with keeping an eye on Crowley. They can’t lose him amongst the hordes of people otherwise the plan will fall to shit pretty quickly.

Sam, Balthazar and some of the other fighters who were at Bobby's wake, are armed to the fucking teeth and stationed at Purgatory. Ash is leading the crew at The Underworld. It’s making Dean’s skin hot and prickly allover, because what if they’re wrong about their second-guesses about Crowley? He might be smarter than they're giving him credit for.

So many things that can go wrong, Dean isn’t feeling quite as confident anymore.

One quick glance at Cas inside the ring, casually getting himself ready, limbering up, tells Dean that the Russian is taking it all in his stride, as if it ain’t no big thang.

No fucking change there then. 

Not many things appear to faze the Russian. Though, in light of recent admissions, Dean thinks that maybe he should be looking closer rather than just giving Cas passing cursory glances. Because _appears_ is really the operative word where Castiel Krushnic is concerned.

Cas _appears_ like he’s this badass champion bareknuckle boxer, who can kill people with his bare hands – and yeah, of course, he _is_ a badass champion bareknuckle boxer etc.  – but Dean knows _why_. And it’s in the why that the final piece of the puzzle of Castiel Krushnic falls into place with surprising ease.

Everything that Castiel does is for show. _Everything._

All Dean has to do to actually _see_ Cas, is look past the carefully constructed façade.

For instance, right now, he’s rolling his shoulders in a way that Dean’s witnessed before, back in prison. It’s what the smaller guys used to do to make themselves _appear_ bigger, more menacing. His stance, his posturing is all reminiscent of the guys inside, making themselves  _appear_ tougher.

_Never judge a book by its cover._

So sure, Cas may come across fearless and confident, but all Dean can see behind the tattoos and stoicism now that he actually bothers to _look_ properly, is the frightened 20-year-old who decided to toughen the fuck up or risk getting emotionally crippled again. The kid who came to London on nothing but grief and a few dollars, training his ass off to become the best bareknuckle boxer in London. The man who kept to himself, not daring to get close to people in case they were snatched away from him.

All to have the illusion of control, so that nobody could ever wield power over him again.

It makes complete fucking sense.

He cuts himself off from his emotions so that he never feels powerless.

And with that knowledge, there’s no way that Dean can let it slide. Not now.

“Cas!” He waves him over to his corner just as the lights dim, racing up the short few steps to the turnbuckle. The other fighter is clumsily slipping between the bottom and middles ropes on the opposite side.

“What? Have you heard from Sam?”

Dean shakes his head. He can’t believe that he’s about to say this, but fuck it. They could all die tonight. And if they don’t die, then he’s perfectly okay with denying all knowledge and claiming that Castiel has taken one-too-many punches to the head.

“Look. You didn’t hear this from me, okay? But, err…it’s okay to be worried about stuff sometimes y’know. You don’t always have to be so…” He trails off, gesturing redundantly, feeling a thousand shades of awkward. He is _so_ not cut out for this girly bullshit.

Castiel looks confused momentarily, brow creasing, but then the corners of his mouth turn up in a smile when he catches onto Dean’s not-entirely-clear meaning. “Says Dean Winchester, the one who papers over his insecurities with sarcasm, sex and alcohol.”

“As opposed to doing it by keeping every single person in my life at an arm’s length.” Dean hisses back petulantly. “At least I’m having a good time.”

“Are you though?” Castiel leans closer, voice raised, so that he can be heard over the heavy beat of the music that’s just kicked in. “Honestly? Because I’ve seen you fight. You don’t fight like you enjoy life. You fight like you’re waiting for the other shoe to drop. Like the life you have is going to be snatched away at any moment and you’re angry that you can’t do anything about it.”

Dean remains silent as Cas continues and the crowd starts to cheer.

“You fight like you’re out of control; like nothing in your life has ever been _in_ your control. But that’s the furthest from the truth. You made a decision the day you took the gun from Sam’s hands. That was all you. You’ve had control from the very beginning.”

“Whereas you’re just the reverse.” Dean murmurs, as the revelations keep on coming like a never ending clown car of bullshit emotions. “You never had control over the situation with your sister and her drug addiction and certainly not over that bastard.”

“Opposite ends of the same scale, Dean.” Castiel quirks a smile. It’s one that Dean hasn’t seen before; the corners of his eyes crinkle and it’s a little gummy. It’s infectious and personal and _so not_ Cas, that it renders Dean mute, gaping like a love-struck moron at the Russian’s departing back as he strides into the centre of the ring, ready for the referee to start the bout.

Yep, the cast of _Love Actually_ (which he totally has _not_ seen) should be on their way any minute now. Hugh Grant is going to spring out of the crowd with a bunch of roses or some shit.

Dean vacantly remembers that he’s supposed to be looking at Crowley, not his stupid… whatever Castiel is, but it’s kind of a major revelation to him and for once he’s actually embracing feelings other than anger.

It’s a strange concept, but he’s pretty much due for it.

The fighters are introduced and Dean stumbles clumsily back down the steps, still in a daze and it’s kind of bizarre, because for all of Dean’s faults – and there are oh, so many – he’s always prided himself on be self-assured and knowing his own mind.

Cas has just shot that to smithereens with a few carefully worded sentences.

A few seconds later the first bell rings, but Dean barely notices, blank stare flicking between Crowley – who seems to visibly tense every time Cas throws a punch, and the Russian himself – who seems to be enjoying himself far too much considering that his opponent tonight is a pretty unpleasant fucker, and Dean’s almost certain that Crowley made the choice on purpose, thinking that Cas was going to have to endure four rounds of punishment from this guy.

Dean’s loath to admit it - especially under the weight of their most recent conversation - but he likes Cas’s face. He doesn’t really want some asshole turning it all shades of purple. Which is ever-so-slightly irrational considering who they both are, but… he’s kind of growing fond of the crazy bastard and his uncanny ability to see straight through Dean’s bullshit. Rationality doesn’t really figure into the proceedings anymore.

The match drags on, Dean checking his phone every few seconds for his brother’s text. It comes during the third round and Dean breathes a sigh of relief. The plan has gone well from everyone else’s ends. The Underworld and Purgatory are safe.

Sammy is safe.

Just before the critical fourth round, Cas comes over to his corner and Dean shoves a bottle of water into his bloody hands and Cas accepts eagerly, twisting the lid off and gulping the liquid down like he’s just crossed the Sahara.

“You’re looking very perplexed Dean.”

Dean arches an eyebrow. “No shit. I’ve known you for a couple of weeks and you’ve already got me figured out.”

“I could say the same.” Castiel replies coolly. “I’m not freaking out.”

“Now you see,” Dean says smugly, “I could take that at face value, like I’m sure that I’m supposed to. Or I could pay closer attention – which I’m going to be doing from now on by the way – and I would see that behind those baby blues, you really are freaking the fuck out.”

“You think you’re so clever, don’t you Winchester?”

“I’m sure you could tell me the answer to that, Krushnic.”

Castiel smiles wryly, finishing off the water and handing the empty bottle back to Dean. “I think I’m starting to like you.”

“Only starting? Gee thanks Cas.” Dean throws a towel at the Russian, who promptly buries his face in it, wiping away sweat and blood. “So what was that when you fucked me? Threw the match because someone else dared to look at me?  ‘Cause if you’re like that around people you can’t stand, then holy shit you really must be Glen fucking Close around people you actually like.”

“And then you have to go and ruin it.” Castiel smirks, rubbing the towel over his neck and chest. Dean tries his best not to follow its path as it gets closer to Cas’s hips. “I take it all back.”

Dean swallows hard. “No you don’t.”

“You know, your words of wisdom are pretty poor.” He tosses the balled up ruined towel at Dean, who only catches it because Cas’s aim means that it ends up in the centre of his chest.

Dean has no retort for the Russian. Other than the always mature ’your face is pretty poor’, which also happens to be about the furthest from the truth as is humanly possible. Dean would feel morally wrong calling Cas anything other than ridiculously attractive.

“Wish me luck.” Cas leans forward to whisper in Dean’s ear, low and breathy, but Dean sees it for what it is; Cas hiding his face so that Dean can’t read how concerned he actually is. And rightly so; the pressure is on in this round, though at least they’re in the home stretch.

The end, or more accurately – Crowley’s end – is in sight.

“Not that you need it. But good luck.”

Cas pulls back, looking surprised that Dean didn’t take the opportunity to be an ass.

“What? I can be nice.”

Cas narrows his eyes but says nothing and then he’s called back to the centre of the ring and Dean is back to dividing his attention between the fight and Crowley. He'd definitely rather be watching Cas and his beautiful tattoos than a sour-faced cockney, but if all goes well in around twenty minutes? Well, Dean should be able to look at the Russian any time he damn well pleases.

The thought that he wants to keep seeing Castiel should worry him, but strangely enough, it doesn't. He may be the only person in the world who he's truly on the same page with. It would be a whole new level of stupid - even for Dean - to throw it away just because it may involve feelings and shit.

Castiel takes a couple of body shots over the next few minutes, but nothing too bad and then with a few seconds left of the round that he’s supposed to be taking a dive in – according to Crowley’s demands anyway – Cas does what he does best.

The knockout punch is almost as impressive this time.

Before the body has even hit the mat, Dean is already looking at Crowley who seems frozen in place, his eyes not yet having taken on the murderous glint that he’s pretty sure they will within the next few seconds as the realisation that the Russian has fucked him over _yet again_ , hits.

Collecting himself, Crowley stands up and starts violently pushing his way through the crowd who clearly aren’t sure how to react; half of them probably having put down a lot of money based off Crowley’s ‘tip’ about Cas’s supposed dive in the fourth round. As far as Crowley is concerned, Dick Roman is amongst those people. The brothers and Cas will be clearing up that misunderstanding soon enough.

Dean turns back to the ring just in time to see the referee hold Cas’s tattooed arm aloft. “Your winner, Castiel ‘The Hitman’ Krushnic!”  But the Russian isn’t enjoying his victory, not even for a moment, his blue eyes trained on Crowley, cold as ice and twice as hard.

“Cas, man, we’ve gotta go.”

Castiel breaks the pointed stare and instead turns his attention over to Dean, nodding slowly, and he slips out of the ring, following Dean down the steps and into the dark corridor that leads to the lockers.

“Which way has he gone?” He asks, jogging behind Dean, hastily yanking the button up shirt on that Dean shoves in his direction, and then taking the gun that Dean passes over his shoulder, not slowing down or stopping.

“The exit onto Wardour street.”

“Is Sam already there?”

“Should be. I got a text a while back.”

“Everybody okay?”

“Yep. No casualties.” He turns to flash Castiel a brief grin, then amends himself. “None of ours anyway.”

They meander through the awful smelling locker room in awkward silence, until Dean can’t stand it, the need to regain some semblance of pissing-contest normality too prevalent to ignore, “What the fuck with that weak ass punch in round three? I know you were supposed to be pretending, but Jesus Cas, a ten year old could hit harder.”

“If you think that I’m going to dignify that with a response then you clearly don’t know me as well as you think you do Winchester.”

Right. Because Cas is rubber and Dean is glue, apparently.

They come barreling out of the fire escape of Crowley’s club just in time to catch the bastard himself emerging from one of the other doors about ten yards away, trying to look calm and collected, but his hands are balled into fists and his whole body is rigid. It’s perfect in a way that really couldn’t have happened without some kind of divine intervention. Between this and Cas’s ass, Dean is seriously rethinking his lifelong promise never to buy into any kind of theology crap.

Crowley’s limousine pulls up along the curb; obviously having been called ahead for his escape, not wanting to stick around after Cas’s win, and it’s then that Dean’s full-scale panic kicks in when a cursory glance around the area tells him that his brother is nowhere to be seen.

They cannot fail at the last fucking hurdle. It’s not an option.

Maybe they can stall until the cavalry arrives.

Crowley catches sight of Dean and Cas, just as he makes it to the car, and there’s that venomous look Dean has been waiting for; the man’s eyes are almost black and in that moment he looks more demonic and frightening than a chunky cockney in a suit has any real right to be. Crowley angrily knocks on the window of his limo, holding out his hand, palm facing up, expectantly. “Gimme a shooter.”

Dean and Cas stay totally still with Crowley’s eyes on them, and they watch raptly as the window glides down and the barrel of a shotgun appears. “Oh I’ll give you a shooter alright, you cunt.”

Crowley looks back at the space where he was expecting one of his cronies, and the evident shock on his face at seeing Sammy sitting there instead, with a gun pointed at him is more than worth the sleeplessness and almost teenage levels of angst over the last few days.

Dean has never been more proud of his brother. Kid certainly knows how to make a fucking entrance. Maybe there’s hope for him yet.

Cas yanks the pistol out of the waistband of his sweats and strides over to Crowley, aiming the barrel squarely at his chest, face determined and barely contained anger making his entire body language easily readable to Dean for the first time since he met the Russian.

Crowley points a finger in Castiel's direction, ire outweighing his fear. For now at least. “You kill me and you’re fucked lad! I have powerful people backing me!”

Dean appears at Cas’s side, his own firearm joining the party. “Oh yeah? Like Dick Roman?”

The colour drains from Crowley’s already pallid face and Sam gets out of the car, gun still trained on the fucker, who – seeing that he’s surrounded by three people he’s threatened on previous occasions –  tries another tack.

And really, Dean has to admire the fucking bollocks on the guy, ‘cause with three guns trained on him? Most people would have the sense to keep quiet.

Not that Dean himself would, of course. He’s not one for passivity. Or sense.

“I have men at your stupid little club in Camden, with orders to burn it down to the ground with everybody inside!” He spits, eyes frantically darting between the three of them. “And don’t even think that your precious boxing place is okay! That’ll be getting the same treatment!”

“Yeah,” Dean scratches his chin, smirk a mile wide. “About that. We’ve got someone who you probably want to speak to.”

Sam reaches into the back seat of the limo and yanks out the body of one of Crowley’s men far enough that Crowley gets the chance to see the man’s head lolling back, exposing the thick red gash where his throat used to be.

“You’ll have to shout pretty loud for him to hear you though.” Sam grins.

Crowley’s eyes widen comically.

“You see,” Castiel’s smile is all crocodilely and it sends a shiver down Dean’s spine in a mixture of fear and arousal. Cas in badass motherfucker mode is something to be both feared and admired. It’s also undeniably fucking hot. “We countered your little attack. Figured that you wouldn’t be content with killing an innocent man. You’d go after more. Because you’re greedy like that.”

“It’s unfortunate for you that we were right.” Dean adds. Though of course, he’s eternally fucking thankful that Crowley is a predictable bastard who just couldn’t resist having some leverage over them.

“They’re all dead.” Sam smiles serenely, as if killing twenty or so men is a normal occurrence. “In case you were wondering.”

“Problem with you is that you’re just a man Crowley.” Cas casually shoots Crowley in the foot, easy as anything, no hesitation whatsoever. “See?”

Crowley lets out an exaggerated wail as he falls to the cobbles in an ungainly heap, face turning beet red and breathing laboured as he fights through the pain. It takes a few minutes before he speaks again. “Roman will never stand for this.” 

“Wrong again,” Cas sing-songs. “We’re in business with him.”

“What?”

“Oh yes. What? You thought I won the match by accident?” He tsks. “No. We simply made Mr Roman a better offer. Turns out, he’s not all that fond of you. Can’t imagine why.”

Crowley’s eyes are panicked; wild when he looks to Dean for answers, as if he’s the reasonable one all of a sudden now that Cas has shot him and Sam has killed his men. “What’s he talking about?”

“Roman put a bet on Cas winning,” Dean explains slowly, dropping down on his haunches in front of Crowley, as one might do when talking to a child, and _damn_ if it doesn’t feel good. “With our persuasion of course. He will have just made half a mil on the bout tonight.”

“N-no…”

“So, you see,” Cas cocks his gun. “’you fucking pratt’…”

“It’s _you_ who’s on thin ice.” Dean finishes with a grin as he straightens up. “And…it looks like it just broke.”

Crowley has a couple of seconds to process his own words thrown back at him, “Now, listen boys-“ before the two rapidly fired shots from Cas’s pistol end up in his brain and throat respectively, effectively silencing the asshole forever.

The three of them stand completely still for a few seconds, saying nothing, just soaking the moment in, processing the information that the plan actually worked. Crowley is fucking gone. And not a soul in the scene will mourn him. He secured that fate the second he hurt someone as important to the community as Bobby.

Dean looks back at Sam and Cas, who are looking equal parts relieved and equal parts concerned and he knows exactly what they’re both thinking: they may have got rid of one problem, but at some point down the line, Roman is quite possibly going to present another issue entirely.

But for now, celebration.

“Well I’d go so far as to call that a complete fucking success. Let’s get wasted.”


	11. Epilogue - "You'll raise Hell, never mind pulses."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I cannot apologise enough for this taking so damn long; RL aside, I had real problems writing this last little bit of their story 'cause it doesn't feel done, but at the same time it does. I have no idea.
> 
> Either way, I finally settled on this rather short epilogue; I'm hoping that it's in keeping with this 'verses Dean and Cas 'cause it says a lot without actually saying it.
> 
> Anyways, thank you to everyone who has read, commented, kudos'd and bookmarked <3.

Dean Winchester is a fucking mess. Literally, some of the time and figuratively, nearly all of the time. Though right now, it’s a challenge to remember that through the utterly striking picture he makes on his knees in the middle of the ring, a thin sheen of sweat covering his entire body, straining cords of muscle and miles of tattooed skin.

He and his younger brother, Sam, are still in the business of unlicensed boxing thanks to Dick Roman and – very occasionally now – Dean steps in to fight. Not even as a form of therapy anymore, because that’s what sex with Castiel seems to be most of the time – it’s cheaper than a shrink and infinitely more enjoyable – but more as a kind of pinch hitter as and when needed.

That’s not what he’s doing in the ring tonight though. Tonight, he and Castiel are alone in Purgatory, taking full advantage of the place being empty for a change. Castiel is leaning against the bar, watching Dean stretching himself open, his spine arched beautifully against the three fingers buried inside him, shiny and slick with lube as he rides them with an intensity that almost makes Castiel jealous. Vivid green eyes are darker than usual, nearing the black that Castiel has definitely been seeing a lot more of in the last few months.

In short, he looks fucking _magnificent_.

He always does, whether he’s fighting, fucking or sleeping, but right now he is as close to perfect as he’s ever going to get. Which – by conventional standards – is still pretty damned far away, but as far as Castiel is concerned?

Well the fact that he’s still here and not running away from whatever _this_ is, speaks volumes. In fact, he’d go so far as to say that he’s definitely running towards it, sprinting even, ‘cause what’s waiting at the finish line is undoubtedly worth it.

Dean lets out a shuddering breath as his eyes briefly flutter shut with pleasure, only to open again seconds later, defiant and heated and trained on Cas; the challenge clear in his unwavering gaze.

Castiel smirks around the glass raised to his lips.

Yep, Dean Winchester may have issues, but Cas has a subscription, so he can’t really judge.

“Cas…” Dean growls, his voice hoarse and breathy all at once, and it sends a sharp shot of arousal through Castiel’s veins, all liquid fire and sizzling to the nerve endings,  “are you going to keep staring at me like a fucking retard or are you gonna get down here and fuck me?”

Beautiful, powerful and a complete force to be reckoned with the man may be, but a poet he is not.

Castiel is certain that he wouldn’t want Dean any other way.

He drains the dregs of his whisky, slamming the glass down on the bar and straightens up to his full height, rolling his shoulders in a manner that he’s been informed on more than occasion is ridiculous posturing, but ‘insanely fucking hot’ all the same.

.

.

.

_Showtime._


End file.
